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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


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OUR  MOTHERS 


149058 


Published,  April,  1916 


Copyright,  1916 
By  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Co. 


All  rights  reserved 


OUR  MOTHERS 


...  •.»,*•.•••..• •       •      '•  .   . 


»   t 


■fflorwoo5  press 

BERWICK  &  SMITH   CO. 

NORWOOD,    MASS. 
U.  S.  A. 


GOT  I 


"  There  is  no  love  like  the  pood  old  love 
the  love  that  mother  gave  us." 

Eugene  Field. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

I  desire  to  express  my  grateful  appreciation  to 
the  following  publishers  and  authors  for  kind  per- 
mission to  use  their  copyright  material :  To  Messrs. 
Houghton  Mifflin  &  Co.,  for  selections  from  Long- 
fellow, Whittier,  Holmes,  and  Bryant;  to  Dodd, 
Mead  &  Co.,  for  selection  from  "  Beside  the  Bonnie 
Brier  Bush,"  by  Ian  Maclaren;  to  The  Christian 
Herald,  for  selections  from  sermon  "  The  Modern 
Home,"  by  J.  Wilbur  Chapman ;  to  the  Curtis  Pub- 
lishing Co.,  for  poems,  "  Shadows,"  by  Alverda  Van- 
Tuyll,  and  "  Muvver  Dear,"  by  Everard  Jack  Ap- 
pleton,  reprinted  by  permission  of  The  Ladies'  Home 
Journal,  copyright,  1912 ;  to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 
for  poems,  "  Now  I  Lay  Me  Down  to  Sleep,"  and 
"  Mother  and  Child,"  from  poems  by  Eugene  Field, 
copyright,  19 10;  to  Forbes  &  Co.,  for  poems,  "  His 
First  Night  Away,"  and  "  Asleep  Among  His  Toys," 
by  Strickland  W.  Gillilan ;  to  Fred  Clare  Bald- 
win, for  poems  from  "  The  Life  Melodious," 
"  The  Trinity  of  Motherhood,"  "  The  Old  Home," 
and   "  A  Lullaby " ;  to   Ernest  Dudley  Chase,   for 

vii 


poem,   "Mother,"  by   Emily  Selinger;  to  Edward 
Earle     Purrington,     for     selections     from     Center 
Monthly;    to    John    Wanamaker,     for    selection, 
"Mother,  Most  Beloved!";  to  John  Martin,  for 
poems,    "  Mother's    Eyes "    and    "  The    Beautiful 
Lady";  to  Woman's  World,  for  "The  Mother's 
Prayer,"  by  Beatrice  E.  Harmon;  to  The  Christian 
Herald,  for  "  In  the  Afterglow,"  by  Flora  S.  Ri- 
vola;   to   the   Orange  Judd   Company,   for  poems, 
"  Mother's     Rocking     Chair,"     by     Harry     Dean, 
"  Mother's   Kisses,"   by  Annie   Balcomb   Wheeler, 
and  "  Longing,"  by  Arthur  Wallace  Peach;  to  Ed- 
gar  A.    Guest,    for   poem,    "Mother's   Knee";   to 
The  Mother  s  Magazine,  for  poem,  "  The  Moth- 
er's Prayer,"  by  Helen  Metzger ;  to  The  Springfield 
Republican  and  Annie  Johnson  Flint,  for  poem,  "  A 
Glorious  End  " ;  to  To-day  s  Magazine,  for  poem, 
"  Mother,"  by  Anne  Herderdeen;  to  Charles  Park- 
hurst,  for  poems,  "  Mother,"  by  Thomas  W.  Fes- 
senden,    "  In    Lilac   Time,"    by    Emma   T.    Lente, 
"  Gone    Home,"    by    Emily    Huntington    Miller, 
"  Faith  of  our  Mothers,"  by  S.  Trevena  Jackson, 
"The    Spartan    Mothers,"    by    A.    M.    Gordon, 
"  Rest,"  by  M.  A.  Holt,  from  Zions  Herald. 

M.  A.  A. 
Haverhill,  Mass. 


vui 


INDEX  TO  SELECTIONS 

All  Mother ii3 

American   Motherhood 95 

Answer  to  "  Rock  Me  To  Sleep  " 75 

As  A  Fond  Mother 82 

Asleep  Among  His  Toys i74 

At  Even-Tide 207 

At  Fourscore 84 

AuLD  House,  The 213 

Babie,  The 119 

Baby 108 

Baby  Lost,   A 142 

Baby's  Skies 124 

Beautiful    Child 118 

Beautiful  Lady,  The 178 

Because  She  Is  a  Mother ...  43 

Before  It  Is  Too  Late 89 

Best 135 

Book  of  Books,  The 52 

Bravest  Battle,  The loi 

Call  of  Love,  The 25 

Cares  of  the  Day,  The 146 

Character-Building 167 

Child   and   Mother 137 

Childhood 156 

Child's  Schoolroom,  The 164 

Christian  Mother,  The 37 

Cradle  Song 116 

Cradle  Song 122 

ix 


PAGE 

Cradle  Song laS 

Dearest  Baby,  The 132 

Dear   Old-Fashioned    Mother 71 

Dear  Old  Mothers 70 

Destiny  of  the   Nation,  The 94 

Dreams i59 

End   of    Glory,    The 98 

Evening  Hearthstone,  The 197 

Faith   of   Mother,   The 36 

Faith  of   Our   Mothers 88 

"  Glorious   End,   A " loo 

Gone  Home 220 

Good-By  —  God  Bless  You! 209 

Good-Night    Kiss,    The 151 

Halls  of  Memory,  The 69 

Hand  that  Rocks  the  Cradle,  The 131 

Happy  Memories 83 

Haven  of  Refuge,  A 193 

Heroism  of  the  Mother,  The 51 

Her  Words  and  Prayers 91 

His   First    Night   Away 160 

His  Mother's  Sermon 87 

His   Mother's    Song 102 

Home 190 

Home 211 

Home  Defined 188 

Home  Dream,  The 186 

Home   Is    Her   Kingdom 185 

Home  Is  Home 203 

Home  Memories i94 

Home  Rules  the  Nation,  The 201 

Home  Songs 205 

X 


PAGE 

Homestead  Hearth,  The 196 

Home  to  Mother 214 

Home  Where  I  Was  Born,  The 212 

Ideal  Mother,  The 50 

I  Miss  Thee,  Dear  Mother 21 

In  Childhood's  Hours 157 

Influence  of  Home,   The 206 

Influence  of  Mother,  The 80 

In  Lilac  Time 23 

In  the  Afterglow 8 

Joy  of  Home,  The 192 

Joys  of  Motherhood,  The 173 

Knight's  Toast,  The 46 

Lincoln's  Tribute  to  His  Mother 44 

Little  Lad's  Answer,  A 158 

Little  Man 155 

Little  Mother  of  Mine 39 

Longing 27 

Love  of  a  True  Mother,  The 172 

Love   of   Mother,   The 34 

Love  of  Mother,  The 107 

Love  Sonnet,  A 3 

Lullaby,   A 129 

Mammy's   Gwine   Home 221 

Mary,   the   Mother   of   Jesus 55 

Mater   Dolorosa 143 

Maternal  Love 81 

Memories  of  Mother 65 

Memory's  Picture 64 

Mother 4 

Mother 35 

Mother 60 

xi 


PAGE 

Mother  and  Child m 

Mother   and   Home 187 

Mother   as  Teacher,   The 165 

Mother  at  the  Gate 93 

Mother!     Home! 189 

Mother,  Home,  and  Heaven 220 

Motherhood 112 

Motherhood 130 

"Mother!     I   Love  You" 170 

Mother-Love 177 

Mother  Most  Beloved ii 

Mother  of  Mine 68 

Mother  o'  Mine 33 

Mothers   and    Sons 162 

Mother's  Boy 161 

Mother's  Charge,  A 147 

Mother's  Empire 215 

Mother's  Eyes i53 

Mother's  Good-By,  A 208 

Mother's  Heart,  A 181 

Mother's  Heritage 29 

Mother's  Influence,  The 58 

Mother's  Kiss,  A 18 

Mother's  Kisses        126 

Mother's  Knee i49 

Mother's  Love,  A 10 

Mother's  Love,  A 4° 

Mother's  Love,  A 120 

Mother's  Love  Endures,  A 15 

Mothers  of  Distinguished  Men 45 

Mothers  of  Great  Men 48 

Mother's  Picture,  A 9 

xii 


PAGE 

Mother's  Place,  A 24 

Mother's  Prayer,  A i39 

Mother's  Prayers,   A 12 

Mother's  Prayer,  The 121 

Mother's  Prayer,   The 176 

Mother's  Privilege,  The 148 

Mother's  Rocking-Chair 76 

Mother's  Sacrifice,  The 163 

Mother's  Secret,  The 54 

Mother's  Shrine 13 

Mother's  Unselfish    Love i6 

Mother's  Way i45 

Mother's  Ways 19 

Mother's  Work 56 

Mother's  World 125 

Mother,  The 106 

Mother  Understands,  A 144 

Muwer  Dear i7S 

My  Dream 3^ 

My  Drowsy  Little  Queen 140 

My  Flower 154 

My  Little  Lad  Who  Died 182 

My  Mother 7 

My  Mother 20 

My  Mother 28 

My  Mother 61 

My  Mother 67 

My  Mother 78 

My  Mother 85 

My  Mother  Dear 41 

My  Mother's   Bible S3 

My  Mother's  Faith 86 

xiii 


PAGE 

My  Mother's  Hands 218 

My  Mother's  Hymn 31 

My  Mother's   Voice 72 

Name  of  Mother,  The 42 

Name  of  Mother,  The 66 

Ne'er  Shall  I  Forget 49 

Nobody  Knows  but  Mother 127 

No  Friend  Like  Mother 14 

"No,   I'll  Not  Forget" 171 

No  Love  Like  Mothers 26 

Now  I  Lay  Me  Down  to  Sleep 73 

Now  I  Lay  Me  Down  to  Sleep 150 

Oh,  to  Be  Home  Again 204 

Old  Arm-Chair,  The 77 

Old  Home,  The 202 

Only  a  Baby  Small 109 

Only  a  Little  Grave 180 

Only  Me 168 

Only  One  Mother 6 

Our   Mothers 17 

Peace  at  Last 103 

Philip,  My  King!    . 179 

Queenliest  Woman,  The 114 

Queen  of  Baby-Land,  The 134 

Queen  of  the  Home,  The 184 

Quietude  of  Home,  The 198 

Real  Queen,  The 97 

Refuge,  The 138 

Rest 219 

Reveries  of  the  Old  Kitchen 216 

Rhyme  of  One,  The 123 

Rockaby  Baby "5 

xiv 


PAGE 

Rocking-Chair  Throne,  The 59 

Rock  Me  to  Sleep 74 

Rocking  the  Baby  to  Sleep 117 

Shadow  of  a  Mother's  Love,  The 57 

Shadows 152 

She  Made  Home  Happy 217 

Silent  and  Lone 183 

Sleep,  Little  Baby  of  Mine 141 

Smile  of  Home,  The 199 

Some  Mother's  Child 32 

Songs  My  Mother  Sings,  The 30 

Spartan   Mothers,   The X04 

Sweet   and   Low 133 

There's  No  Place  Like  Home 191 

Tired  Mothers 136 

To  My  Mother 79 

Toys,  The 169 

Tribute  to  Mother,   A 47 

Trinity  of  Motherhood,  A 5 

True  Christian  Home,  The 200 

Trust 90 

Two  Fates,  The 105 

Two  Magical  Words no 

Two  Pictures 210 

Voices  of  the  Loved  and  Lost 22 

Ways  of  Love,  The 63 

Way  with  Mothers,  The 99 

Welcome  Home 195 

What  Is  Home  Without  a  Mother? 92 

When  Mother  Calls 62 

Wise  Mother,  The 166 

World's  Queen,  The 96 

XV 


Here's  to  one  in  a  million. 

The  dearest,  the  best; 
Like  the  sun  in  the  heavens. 

She  outshines  the  rest! 
Dont  frown  when  I  tell  you 

This  toast  beats  all  others. 
But  here's  one  more  toast,  boys  — 

A  toast  to  OUR  MOTHERS/ 

George  Cooper. 


OUR   MOTHERS 

A  LOVE  SONNET 

TO  MOTHER 

QONNETS  are  full  of  love,  and  this  my  tome 
^^   Has  many  sonnets:    so  here  now  shall  be 
One  sonnet  more,  a  love  sonnet,  from  me 
To  her  whose  heart  is  my  heart's  quiet  home. 
To  my  first  love,  my  mother,  on  whose  knee 
I  learned  love  —  love  that  is  not  troublesome, 
Whose  service  is  my  special  dignity, 
And  she  my  loadstar  while  I  go  and  come. 

And  so  because  you   love  me,   and   because 

I  love  you,  mother,  I  have  woven  a  wreath 

Of  rhymes  wherewith  to  crown  your  honored  name ; 

In  you  not  fourscore  years  can  dim  the  flame 

Of  love,  whose  blessed  glow  transcends  the  law^ 

Of  time  and  change  and  mortal  life  and  death. 

—  Christina  Rossetti. 
3 


MOTHER 

^~^0T)  thought  to  give  the  sweetest  thing  in  His 

^^        almighty  power 

To  earth;  and  deeply    pondering   what    it    should 

be  —  one  hour 
In  fondest  joy  and  love  of  heart  outweighing  every 

other, 
He  moved  the  gates  of  Heaven  apart  and  gave  to 

earth  —  a  mother ! 

—  G.  Newell  Lovejoy. 


'  I  '*HE  partnership  with  God  is  Motherhood, 

-■■      What  strength,  what  purity,  what  self-control, 
What  love,  what  wisdom  shall  belong  to  her 
Who  helps  God  fashion  an  immortal  soul. 

—  Anon. 


l%yr OTHER!     Dear  sacred  name  and  sweet! 
XtX  jyy-g  ^^^Q  j^gj.  tender,  daily  care  just 
As  the  thoughtless  flowers  look  up  to  God 
For  daily  light, —  because  we  know  'tis  ours. 

—  L.  H.  Underwood. 


A  TRINITY  OF  MOTHERHOOD 

A  MOTHER'S    love  —  its    meaning    who    can 
^       measure, 

Or  who  such  depths  of  hallowed  mystery  sound? 
Outside  the  heart  of  God  so  rich  a  treasure 
Has  never  yet  been  found ! 

A  mother's  face  —  all  radiant  and  resplendent 
Where  memory  guards  the  shrine  with  watchful 
care! 
What  master  hand  e'er  wrought  with  touch  tran- 
scendent 

A  thing  so  wondrous  fair? 

A  mother's  kiss  —  oh,  how  its  impress  lingers 
Through  all  the  change  that  o'er  one's  soul  may 
creep ! 
It  thrills  me  now  as  these  poor  trembling  fingers 
The  chords  of  memor>'^  sweep ! 

—  Fred  Clare  Baldwin. 


ONLY  ONE  MOTHER 

T  TUNDREDS  of  stars  in  the  pretty  sky, 
■*■  •*■   Hundreds  of  shells  on  the  shore  together, 
Hundreds  of  birds  that  go  singing  by, 
Hundreds  of  bees  in  the  sunny  weather; 

Hundreds  of  dewdrops  to  greet  the  dawn, 
Hundreds  of  lambs  in  the  purple  clover, 
Hundreds  of  butterflies  on  the  lawn, — 
But  only  one  mother  the  world  over. 

—  Anon. 

FOR  mother  in  lowly  cabin,  or  mother  in  palace 
hall, 
Is  ever  the  truest  and  dearest,  and  ever  the  best 

of  all. 
Mother  with  hands  toil-hardened,  mother  in  pearls 

and  lace. 
The  light  of  heavenly  beauty  shines  in  her  tender 
face.  — Margaret  E.  Songster. 

/^NE  lamp,  thy  mother's  love,  amid  the  stars 
^^  shall  lift  its  pure  flame  changeless,  and  before 
the  throne  of  God  burn  through  eternity. 

~J.  P.    Willis. 
6 


MY  MOTHER 

'  I  ''HE  sweetest  face  in  all  the  world  to  me, 

"*•      Set  in  a  frame  of  shining  silver  hair, 
With  eyes  whose  language  is  fidelity; 
This  is  my  mother.     Is  she  not  most  fair? 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

0  mother!  in  the  changeful  years  now  flown. 
Since,  as  a  child,  I  leant  upon  your  knee, 

Life  has  not  brought  to  me,   nor  fortune  shown, 
Such   tender  love!   such  yearning  sympathy! 

Let  fortune  smile  or  frown,  whiche'er  she  will; 
It  matters  not,  I  scorn  her  fickle  ways! 

1  never  shall  be  quite  bereft  until 

I  lose  my    mother's    honest    blame    and  praise! 

—  May  Riley  Smith. 

T   BEAR  a  happy  heart,  mother!  yet  when  fond 

-■■  eyes  I  see, 

And   hear  soft   tones   and   winning  words   I   ever 

think  of  thee. 
And  then,  the  tears  my  spirit  weeps  unbidden  fill 

my  eye; 
And,  like  a  houseless  dove,  I  long  unto  thy  breast 

to  fly.  — Forrester. 

7 


IN  THE  AFTERGLOW 

"|%yr  OTHER  o'  mine,  in  the  afterglow 

-^*-'-   Of  mothering  years,  I  love  you  so; 

For  loving  me  e'er  life  I  knew, 

When  next  your  heart  a  new  life  grew, 

Loving  me  on  into  fair  childhood, 

When  I  so  little  understood 

The  long,  hard  way  we  all  must  go 

Mother  o'  mine,  I  love  you  so. 

Mother  o'  mine,  in  the  afterglow 
Of  motherhood's  years,  I  thank  you  so 
For  gifts  to  me  from  out  of  your  heart. 
At  thoughts  that  rise  my  hot  tears  start; 
God  give  me  ways  to  make  you  know 
How  great  is  my  love  before  you  go 
Away  to  rest  from  your  mothering; 
I  would  remove  life's  every  sting. 
And  give  you  rest  in  the  afterglow, 
For,  Mother  o'  mine,  I  love  you  so. 

—  Flora  S.  Rivola. 


8 


A  MOTHER'S  PICTURE 

''A     LADY,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun  looked 

■*'  ^         down  upon, 
You  must  paint  for  me. 
O,  if  I  could  only  make  you  see 
The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
The  sovereign  svv^eetness,  the  gentle  grace, 
The  woman's  soul,  and  the  angel's  face, 
That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while, 
But  I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words; 

One  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say. 
She  is  my  mother:  and  you  will  agree 

That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away." 

—  Alice  Gary. 

SHE  seemed  an  angel  in  our  infant  eyes. 
Once  when   the   glorifying  moon    revealed 
Her  who  at  evening  by  our  pillow  kneeled, — 
Soft-voiced  and  golden-haired  from  holy  skies 
Flown  to  her  loves  on  wings  of  Paradise, 
We  looked  to  see  the. pinions  half-concealed. 

•  •••••• 

This  picture  lingers ;  —  still  she  seems  to  me 
The  fair  angel  of  my  infancy. 

—  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

9 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE 

A  MOTHER'S  love!  What  can  compare  with 
■*■  ^  it !  Of  all  things  on  earth,  it  comes  nearest  to 
divine  love  in  heaven. 

A  mother's  love  means  a  life's  devotion  —  and 
sometimes  a  life's  sacrifice  —  with  but  one  thought, 
one  hope  and  one  feeling,  that  her  children  will 
grow  up  healthy  and  strong,  free  from  evil  habits 
and  able  to  provide  for  themselves.  Her  sole  wish 
is  that  they  may  do  their  part  like  men  and  women, 
avoid  dangers  and  pitfalls,  and,  when  dark  hours 
come,  trust  in  Providence  to  give  them  strength, 
patience  and  courage  to  bear  up  bravely. 

Happy  is  the  mother  when  her  heart's  wish  is  an- 
swered, and  happy  are  her  sons  and  daughters  when 
they  can  feel  that  they  have  contributed  to  her 
noble  purpose,  and,  in  some  measure,  repaid  her 
unceasing,  unwavering  love  and  devotion. 

—  Anon. 


I 


F  there  is  aught  surpassing  human  deed  or  word 
or  thought,  it  is  a  mother's  love. 

—  Marchioness  De  Spadoro. 


10 


MOTHER  MOST  BELOVED! 

THE  years  roll  on,  Mother  dearest,  that  bring 
me  nearer  to  you,  but  you  have  never  seemed 
very  far  away. 

The  wheels  of  time  have  left  their  tracks  on  all 
about  us,  but  your  dear  face  has  remained  just  the 
same. 

What  you  said  to  us  and  the  memories  of  what 
you  did  for  us  come  back  and  back  to  your  children 
in  the  silent  seasons  of  the  night  and  the  busy  hours 
of  the  day,  and  never  is  there  a  sickness  or  trial  nor 
a  joy  that  you  are  not  present  in  some  form. 

More  than  a  thousand  times  since  you  journej^ed 
on  we  have  said,  if  only  Mother  were  here  as  of  old 
that  we  might  say  the  word  and  do  the  thing  we 
postponed  or  forgot. 

—  John  Wanamaker. 


MY  mother  was  the  sheet-anchor  of  my  life,  and 
the  most  perfect  lady  in  all  Scotland.  The 
end  of  the  whole  matter  is,  that  I  think  there  is 
nobody  like  mother  in  the  whole  world. 

—  Daniel  Macmillan. 


II 


A  MOTHER'S  PRAYERS 

T  CANNOT  name  any  time,  day  or  place  when  I 
"*•  was  converted.  It  was  my  mother's  steady  and 
constant  influence  that  led  me  gradually  along,  and 
I  grew  into  a  religious  life  under  her  potent  train- 
ing, and  by  the  power  of  the  Holy  Spirit  working 
through  her  agency.  I  feel  now  that  the  happy 
fifty-six  years  that  I  spent  in  the  glorious  ministry 
of  the  gospel  of  redemption  is  the  direct  outcome  of 
that  beloved  mother's  prayers,  teaching,  example, 
and  holy  influence. 

—  Theodore  L.  Cuyler. 


TN  a  college  where  one  hundred  and  twenty  young 
"■■  men  were  preparing  for  the  ministry,  it  was 
found  that  more  than  one  hundred  had  been  led  to 
Christ  by  their  mothers. 

—  /.  S.  C.  Abbott. 


TTOLY  as  heaven  a  mother's  tender  love,  the  love 
■*-■■•  of  many  prayers  and  many  tears,  which  changes 
not  with  dim  declining  years. 

—  Mrs,  Norton. 

12 


MOTHER'S  SHRINE 

OHE  is  a  priestess,  and  her  shrine  is  an  immortal 

^  spirit.  . 

—  Anon. 


^  I  '*HE  instruction  received  at  the  mother's  knee, 

-■■      and    the  paternal  lessons,    together   with   the 

pious  and  sweet  souvenirs  of  the  fireside,  are  never 

effaced  entirely  from  the  soul.  ^ 

—  Lamennais. 


/RESERVE  how  soon,  and  to  what  a  degree,  this 
^^  influence  begins  to  operate!  Her  first  minis- 
tration for  her  infant  is  to  enter,  as  it  were,  the  val- 
ley of  the  shadow  of  death,  and  win  its  life  at  the 
peril  of  her  own!  How  different  must  an  affection 
thus  founded  be  from  all  others! 

—  Mrs.  Sigourney. 


A  MOTHER'S  prayers,  silent  and  gentle,  can 
never   miss   the   road   to   the   throne   of   all 

—  Henry  Ward  Beecher. 
13 


NO  FRIEND  LIKE  MOTHER 

A  MOTHER  is  the  truest  friend  we  have,  when 
■*■  ■*•  trials,  heavy  and  sudden  fall  upon  us;  when 
adversity  takes  the  place  of  prosperity ;  when  friends 
who  rejoice  with  us  in  our  sunshine,  desert  us  when 
troubles  thicken  around  us,  still  will  she  cling  to  us, 
and  endeavor  by  her  kind  precepts  and  counsels  to 
dissipate  the  clouds  of  darkness,  and  cause  peace  to 
return  to  our  hearts,  —  Washington  Irving. 


TN  after  life  you  may  have  friends  —  fond,  dear 
*■•  friends;  but  never  will  you  have  again  the  inex- 
pressible love  and  gentleness  lavished  upon  you 
which  none  but  a  mother  bestows. 

—  Macaulay. 

0  HE  was  my  friend  —  I  had  but  her  —  no  more, 
^^  No  other  upon  earth  —  and  as  for  heaven, 

1  am  as  they  that  seek  a  sign,  to  whom 

No  sign  is  given.     My  mother!     Oh,  my  mother! 

—  Bayard  Taylor. 


M 


OTHER  —  that    was    the    bank    where    we 
deposited  all  our  hurts  and  worries. 

—  T.  DelVitt  Talmage, 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE  ENDURES 

A  FATHER  may  turn  his  back  on  his  child, 
•*-  ■*-  brothers  and  sisters  may  become  inveterate 
enemies,  husbands  may  desert  their  wives,  wives 
their  husbands ;  but  a  mother's  love  endures  through 
all;  in  good  repute,  in  bad  repute,  in  the  face  of  the 
world's  condemnation,  a  mother  still  loves  on  and 
still  hopes  that  her  child  may  turn  from  his  evil 
ways  and  repent;  still  she  remembers  the  infant 
smiles  that  once  filled  her  bosom  with  rapture,  the 
merry  laugh,  the  joyful  shout  of  his  childhood,  the 
opening  promise  of  his  youth;  and  she  can  never 
be  brought  to  think  of  him  all  unworthy. 

—  Washington  Irving. 

TN  a  single  day,  I,  a  strong  man,  with  nothing 
"*■  else  to  occupy  my  mind,  am  reduced  to  physical 
and  mental  worthlessness  by  the  necessities  of  two 
boys  not  over-mischievous  or  bad.  And  you  — 
heaven  only  knows  how  —  have  unbroken  weeks, 
months,  years,  yes,  lifetimes,  of  just  such  experi- 
ences, and  with  them  the  burden  of  household  cares, 
of  physical  ills  and  depressions,  of  mental  anxieties 
that  pierce  your  hearts  with  as  many  sorrows  as 
grieved  the  Holy  Mother  of  old. 

—  John  Habberton. 
15 


MOTHER'S  UNSELFISH  LOVE 

*'''  I  ^O  think  of  mother  is  to  recall  her  unselfish 
■*■  devotion,  her  limitless,  unfaltering  love 
through  good  and  evil  report,  never  wavering,  but 
growing  stronger  and  stronger  with  the  years;  and 
to  remember  that  she  asks  nothing  in  return  for 
herself;  she  only  asks  of  us  and  for  us  that  we  be 
good  men  and  women.  If  we  fail  she  does  not  love 
us  less,  but  more.  Wonderful,  constant,  miraculous 
mother's  love !  "  — John  Burke. 


A  MOTHER'S  love  Is  indeed  the  golden  link 
■*■  ■*■  that  binds  youth  to  age;  and  he  is  still  but  a 
child,  however  time  may  have  furrowed  his  cheek, 
or  silvered  his  brow,  who  can  yet  recall,  with  a 
softened  heart,  the  fond  devotion  or  the  gentle 
chidings  of  the  best  friend  that  God  ever  gives  us. 

—  Bovee. 


"]%T OTHER  love  .  .  .  hath  this  unlikeness 
^^ -^  to  any  other  love:  Tender  to  the  object,  it 
can  be  infinitely  tyrannical  to  itself,  and  thence  all 
its  power  of  self-sacrifice.  — Lew  Wallace. 

i6 


OUR  MOTHERS. 

ALL  days  are  yours,  our  mothers.  Mothers  of 
our  own  and  those  no  less  beautiful  mothers  of 
our  children.  We  seem  never  to  be  deprived  by 
nature  of  the  mothering  by  those  two  noble  M^omen. 
Rossini's  "  Stabat  Mater  "  is  ever  singing  on  its 
glorious  way.  But  a  nobler,  sweeter  music  is  al- 
ways sounding  round  the  globe.  The  joy  of  infancy 
and  childhood  centers  in  the  mother,  while  memory 
finds  in  her  its  highest  consolation.  The  best  wis- 
dom of  all  ages  is  what  mother  said.  Nor  is  there 
any  other  knowledge  that  so  keeps  its  hold  upon  us. 
"  Blessed  art  thou  among  women."  As  long  as  the 
love  for  his  mother  remains  responsive  in  a  son's 
heart  he  is  safe  from  overthrow,  and  to  the  daugh- 
ter such  love  is  a  never-failing  shield  if  she  will 
use  it.  — Emory  J.  Haynes. 

T  ET  every  honest  man  praise  God  that  all 
■'— '  his  life  through  he  has  the  privilege,  the  royal 
honor,  of  daily  association  with  Mothers:  In  youth 
with  his  own  mother,  the  fountain  of  his  life  and 
of  his  dearest  memories;  in  manhood  with  the 
sweeter  mother  of  his  own  sweet  babes! 

—  Eben  Willis  Smith. 

17 


A  MOTHER'S  KISS 

"A  KISS  from  my  mother  made  me  a  painter," 
■^  ^  said  the  veteran  artist,  Benjamin  West,  after 
he  had  won  fame  and  hung  his  pictures  in  Royal 
Academies.  When  she  looked  at  his  first  boyish 
sketch,  she  praised  it.  If  she  had  been  a  silly  or 
sulky  parent,  she  might  have  said,  "  Foolish  child, 
don't  waste  your  time  on  such  daubs,"  and  so  have 
quenched  the  first  spark  of  ambition. 

—  Theodore  Cuyler. 


A  RCHBISHOP  LEIGHTON  says:  "Fill  the 
'*■  -^  bushel  with  good  wheat,  and  there  will  be  no 
room  for  chafiE  or  rubbish."  This  is  a  good  thought 
for  every  mother  while  tending  her  children,  and 
watching  the  growth  of  their  power  in  body  and 
mind.  Children  are  wonderful  imitators,  so  that  it 
is  comparatively  easy  to  lead  them  early  into  good 
ways.  While  by  all  means  it  is  well  to  send 
children  to  school,  the  largest  portion  of  their 
education,  whether  good  or  evil,  is  carried  on  at 
home,  often  unconsciously  in  their  amusements,  and 
under  the  daily  influence  of  what  they  see  and  hear 
about  them.  — Mothers  Treasury. 

i8 


MOTHER'S  WAYS 

A  ^.lOTHER  comforts  by  clinging  tenderness, 
•*•  -^  by  tactful  suggestion,  and  by  sympathy. 
Happy  is  the  child  who  can  come  home  to  mother 
with  his  or  her  first  heartache. 

—  W.  J.   Twort. 


A 


MOTHER  is  as  different  from  anything  else 
that  God  ever  thought  of  as  can  possibly  be. 
—  Henry   Ward  Beecher. 


'**  I  ''IS  a  mother's  large  affection  hears  with  a  mys- 

-■■  terious  sense, — 

Breathings    that    escape    detection,    whispers    faint, 

and  fine  inflection 
Thrills  in  her  with  power  intense. 
Childhood's   honeyed   words   untaught   heareth   she 

in  loving  thought, 
Tones  that  never  thence    depart,    for    she    listens 

—  with  her  heart.         — Laman  Blanchard. 


M 


OTHER'S  love  is  ever  in  its  spring, 
Mother's  truth  keeps  constant  youth. 
—  From   The  French. 
19 


MY  MOTHER! 

T  NEVER  call  that  gentle  name, 

"*•   My  mother !  but  I  am  again 

E'en  as  a  child ;  the  very  same 

That  prattled  at  thy  knee;  and  fain 
Would  I  forget,  in  momentary  joy. 
That  I  no  more  can  be  thy  happy  boy. 

I've  lived  through  foreign  lands  to  roam, 

And  gazed  on  many  a  classic  scene ; 
But  oft  the  thought  of  that  dear  home, 
Which  once  was  ours,  would  intervene, 
And  bid  me  close  again  my  languid  eye, 
To  think  of  thee  and  those  sweet  days  gone  by. 

I've  pored  o'er  many  a  yellow  page 

Of  ancient  wisdom,  and  have  won 

Perchance  a  scholar's  name;  yet  sage 

Or  poet  ne'er  have  taught  thy  son 

Lessons  so  pure,  so  fraught  with  holy  truth. 

As  those  his  mother's  faith  shed  o'er  his  youth. 

—  George  W.  Bethune. 


20 


I  MISS  THEE,  DEAR  MOTHER 

1MISS  thee,  my  mother,  when  young  health  has 
fled. 
And  I  sink  in  the  laguor  of  pain. 
Where,  where  is  the   arm  that  once  pillowed  my 
head, 
And  the  ear  that  once  heard  me  complain? 

Other  hands  may  support  me,  gentle  accents  may 
fall  — 

For  the  fond  and  the  true  are  still  mine; 
I've  a  blessing  for  each ;  I  am  grateful  to  all, — 

But  whose  care  can  be  soothing  as  thine? 

I  miss  thee,  my  mother!  thy  image  is  still 
The  deepest  impress'd  on  my  heart. 

And  the  tablet  so  faithful  in  death  must  be  chill, 
Ere  a  line  of  that  image  depart. 

—  Eliza  Cook. 


**  I  ''HOUGH  sunny  smiles  wreath  blooming  lips, 

-*-      While  love-tones  meet  my  ear; 
My  mother,  one  fond  glance  of  thine  were  thousand 
times  more  dear.  — Forrester. 

21 


VOICES  OF  THE  LOVED  AND  LOST 

THE  voices  of  the  Loved  and  Lost  are  stirring 
at  my  heart, 
And  memory's  misered  treasures  leap  to  life,  with 
sudden  start  — 


Thou    art   looking,   smiling   on   me,    as   thou   hast 

looked    and   smiled,    Mother, 
And  I  am  sitting  at  thy  side,  at  heart  a  very  child, 

Mother! 

I'm  with  thee  now  in  soul,  sweet  Mother, 
Much  as  in  those  hours. 

When  all  my  wealth  was  in  thy  love,  and  in  the 
birds  and  flowers. 

And  by  these  holy  yearnings,  by  these  eyes  sweet 

tears  wet, 
I  know  there  wells  a  spring  of  love  through  all  my 

being  yet. 

—  Gerald  Massey. 


22 


IN  LILAC  TIME 


\  RE  the  lilacs  blooming  in  God's  fair  gardens, 
■^  -^  Mother  o'  mine? 

They  are  blossoming  here  by  your  cottage  doorway, 
Purple  and  fine. 


Their  fragrance  floats  in  the  open  window 

Like  breath  of  wine. 
Where  used  to  sit  in  your  happy  leisure, 

Mother  o'  mine. 

You  were  fair  and  fine  as  the  dainty  blossoms. 

Mother  o'  mine, 
And  the  love  that  shone  from  your  eyes  upon  me, 

Was  love  divine. 

Your  burial  bed  is  covered  with  lilacs 

Purple  and  fine. 
But  oh,  do  they  bloom  in  your  heavenly  places, 

Mother  o'  mine? 

—  Emma  A.  Lente. 


23 


A  MOTHER'S  PLACE 

1^TO  earthly  friend  can  fill  a  mother's  place! 
-^  ^    There  is  an  instinct  love,  an  added  sense, 
Within  a  mother's  breast,  that  draweth  hence 
Rare  quickness  of  perception,  to  discern 
Her  offspring's  wants.     She  needeth  not  to  learn 
By  voice  or  gesture.     Swift  her  footsteps  glide. 
Noiseless  as  Silence's  self;  and  at  the  side 
Of  her  beloved  one,  with  love's  strength  inspired, 
She  is  content  to  watch  for  hours  untired  — 
To  move  the  weary  limb,  and  soft  recline 
The  aching  head ;  the  language  of  a  sigh. 
Wishes  unshaped  in  words,  by  glance  or  sign, 
Quick  to  interpret  and  to  gratify.  — Anon. 


T    IKE  a  sick  child  that  knoweth  not 
■'— '  His  mother  while  she  blesses, 
And  droppeth  on  his  burning  brow 

The  coolness  of  her  kisses; 
And  turns  his  fevered  eyes  around  — 

"  My  mother,  where's  my  mother?  " 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  looks 

Could  come  from  any  other. 

—  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning, 
24 


THE  CALL  OF  LOVE 

A  NORTHERN  soldier  boy  lay  dying  in  a 
Southern  hospital.  The  mother  heard  of  it. 
She  must  reach  him  in  some  way.  A  pass  from  the 
President  places  her  beyond  the  lines  of  the 
Northern  army.  Her  storj^  passes  her  through  the 
ranks  of  the  enemy  and  to  see  her  boy.  "  He  has 
a  little  while  to  live,"  the  doctor  tells  her.  "  He 
would  not  know  you.  He  has  not  known  any  one 
for  the  past  three  days.  You  had  better  not  go 
in.  It  may  hasten  his  death."  But  the  mother's 
pleading  wins  her  a  place  beside  the  boy.  It  is  only 
one  word,  spoken  just  above  a  whisper,  "  Charley!  " 
But  the  mother  speaks  it.  There  is  life  and  healing 
in  the  voice.  Death  is  robbed  of  its  victim.  Love 
ever  answers  to  the  call  of  the  one  it  loves. 

—  David  C.  Cook. 


"IT  THEN  we  are  sick,   where  can  we  turn  for 

^  '      succor ; 
And  when  the  world  looks  cold  and  surly  on  us, 
Where  can  we  go  to  meet  a  warmer  eye 
With  such  sure  confidence  as  to  mother? 

—  Johanna  Baillie. 

35 


"f  NO  LOVE  LIKE  MOTHER'S 

npHERE  i"s  no  love  like  a  Mother's  — 

-*■      'Tis  the  sun  that  shineth  forth  ; 
There  is  no  Truth  like  a  Mother's  — 

'Tis  the  Star  that  points  the  North; 
There  is  no  Hope  like  a  Mother's  — 

'Tis   the  April   in   the  clod; 
There  is  no  Trust  like  a  Mother's  — 

'Tis  the  Charity  of  God: 
The  Love  and  Truth,  and   Hope  and  Trust 
That  makes  the  Mortal  more  than  dust. 

—  John  Jarvis  Holden. 


'  I  '*HERE  is  not  a  grand  inspiring  thought, 
There  is  not  a  truth  by  wisdom  taught, 
There  is  not  a  feeling  pure  and  high, 
That  may  not  be  read  in  a  mother's  eye. 
There  are  teachings  in  earth,  and  sky,  and  air, 
The  heavens  the  glory  of  God  declare; 
But  louder  than  voice,  beneath,  above. 
He    is    heard    to    speak  through  a  mother's  love. 

—  Emily   Taylor. 


26 


LONGING 

T  TOW  often  in  the  after  3'ears  when  time 

-^  -^    Has  touched  us  whitely  with  his  frosty  rime 

In  silent  moments  never  spoken  of 

We  long  to  know  again  a  mother's  love. 

Bright  gold  hard  labor's  guerdon  may  be  ours 
And   fame  have  brought  us  satisfying  dowers, 
Yet  in  the  moment  when  our  life  has  all  — 
All  would  we  give  to  hear  her  gently  call. 

When  fevered  with  the  fret  of  life  and  toil, 
The  strife  of  living,  and  the  day's  turmoil, 
How  do  we  yearn,  so  deeply  and  so  much, 
To  feel  again  the  healing  of  her  touch. 

When  bitter  in  defeat,  by  failure  stung, 

When  from  the  heart,  hot,  careless  words  are  flung, 

How   thoughts    brings   back,    our    dark   moods    to 

beguile. 
The  pleased,  reproving  laughter  in  her  smile! 

Ah,  mothers,  little  do  you  know  or  guess 
How  in  our  secret  hearts  your  name  we  bless; 
How  you  are  present  through  life's  joys  and  tears, 
Forgotten  not  through  life's  increasing  years! 

—  Arthur  JVallace  Peach. 
27 


MY  MOTHER 

T\  yf"Y  mother!  It  was  she  who  put  her  arms 
"^  "*■  around  us  when  father  died.  It  was  she  who 
made  it  possible  for  us  to  have  even  the  small  com- 
forts of  life,  and  when  we  were  so  poor  that  we 
scarcely  had  food  to  eat  or  fire  to  warm  us  it  was 
she  who  protected  us.  All  that  is  good  in  my  life, 
I  think,  has  come  from  her;  and  I  have  never  come 
near  Northfield  that  I  have  not  found  myself  walk- 
ing nervously  up  and  down  the  aisle  of  the  car, 
anxious  to  reach  home,  that  I  might  see  my  mother. 

—  Dwight  L.  Moody. 


1% /TOODY  loved  his  mother,  and  her  sweet  in- 
■^^-*-  fluence  followed  him  all  the  workadays  of 
his  life.  He  wrote  her  every  twenty-four  hours  of 
his  absence,  and  never  was  too  much  engaged  to 
visit  her  whenever  he  was  near  her.  It  was  another 
case  of  Lord  Langdale,  who  said,  "  If  the  world 
were  put  into  one  scale  and  my  mother  in  the  other, 
the  world  would  kick  the  beam."  On  the  human 
side  no  influence  could  have  been  injected  into  the 
man's  life  which  would  have  given  him  greater 
inspiration.  — Bishop  Hamilton. 

28 


MOTHER'S  HERITAGE 

1%  T  Y  mother's  voice !    Fond  memory  can  no  richer 

-^'-*'       treasure  bring, 

No  songs  are  half  so  sweet  to  me  as  those  she  used 

to  sing. 
No  tales  so  well  remembered  are  as  those  rehearsed 

to  me, 
A  happy,  trusting  little  child,  beside  my  mother's 

knee. 


My  mother,  when  I  think  of  all  thy  self-forgetting 

zeal, 
That  sought  another's  grief  to  share,  another's  woes 

to  heal; 
The  little  shining  deeds  of  love  the  world  not  often 

sees, 
Ah  me!  I  cannot  count  the  worth  of  blessings  such 

as  these! 
But   still    in    fadeless   memories    they  are  treasured 

every  one. 
Those  little  golden   threads  of  life  her  hands  so 

deftly  spun ; 
And  often  as  in  revery  they  come  again  to  mind, 
I    would    that    I    might    leave    as    rich    a   heritage 

behind.  — Helen  C.  Smith. 

29 


THE  SONGS  MY  MOTHER  SINGS 

/^  H,  sweet  unto  the  heart  is  the  song  my  mother 

^■^        sings 

As  eventide  is  brooding  on  its  dark  and  noiseless 
wings! 

Every  note  is  charged  with  memory  — 

Every  memory  bright  with  rays 

Of  the  golden  hour  of  promise  in  the  lap  of  child- 
hood days. 

The  orchard  blooms  anew,  and  each  blossom  scents 

the  way, 
And  I  feel  again  the  breath  of  eve  among  the  new 

mown  hay; 
While  through  the  halls  of  memory  in  happy  notes 

there  rings 
All  the  life  joys  of  the  past  in  the  songs  my  mother 

sings.  —  Thomas  O'Hagan. 

OOME  of  these  songs  you  will  never  forget. 
^^  They  have  made  an  indelible  impression  on 
j^our  mind,  and  sometimes  the  music  of  your 
mother's  voice  as  she  sang  these  songs  comes  back 
to  you  like  the  sound  of  a  far-away  melody. 

—  Maurice  Meredith. 
30 


MY  MOTHER'S  HYMN. 

T    IKE  patient  saint  of  oldentime,  with  lovely  face 

'*'-'       almost  divine, 

So  good,  so  beautiful  and  fair,  her  very  attitude  a 
prayer ; 

I  heard  her  sing  so  low  and  sweet, 

"  His  loving  kindness  —  oh,  how  great!  " 

Turning,  behold  the  saintly  face,  so  full  of  trust 
and  patient  grace. 

"  He  justly  claims  a  song  from  me.  His  loving- 
kindness  —  oh,  how  free !  " 

Sweetly  thus  did  run  the  song,  "  His  loving  kind- 
ness "  all  day  long. 

Trusting,  praising,  day  by  day,  she  sang  the  sweet- 
est roundelay  — 

"  He  near  my  soul  hath  always  stood 

His  loving  kindness  —  oh,  how  good!" 

"  He  safely  leads  my  soul  along, 

His  loving  kindness  —  oh,  how  strong!" 

So  strong  to  lead  her  on  the  way 

To  that  eternal  better  day. 

Where  safe  at  last  in  that  blest  home, 

All  care  and  weariness  are  gone, 

She  "  sings,  with  rapture  and  surprise, 

His  loving  kindness  in  the  skies."  — Anon. 

31 


N 


SOME  MOTHER'S  CHILD 

O  matter  how  far  from  the  right  she  hath 
strayed ; 

No  matter  what  inroads  dishonor  hath  made; 
No  matter  what  elements  cankered  the  pearl  — 
Though  tarnished  and  sullied,  she  is 
Some  Mother's  girl. 

No  matter  how  wayward  his  footsteps  have  been; 
No  matter  how  deep  he  is  sunken  in  sin ; 
No  matter  how  low  is  his  standard  of  joy;  — 
Though  guilty  and  loathsome,  he  is 
Some  Mother's  boy. 

That   head   hath    been    pillowed    on    some    tender 

breast ; 
That  form  hath  been  wept  o'er,   those  lips  have 

been  pressed; 
That  soul  hath  been  prayed  for,  in  tones  sweet  and 

mild. 
For  her  sake  deal  gently  with  — 
Some  Mother's  child. 

—  Francis  L.  Keeler. 


32 


MOTHER  O'  MINE 

'\7'OU  nursed  me  through  my  infant  years 

■■■     You  loved  me  as  a  child, 
You  shared  with  me  my  hopes  and  fears, 

With  counsels  good  and  mild, 
And  when  my  erring  footsteps  strayed. 

How  sad  that  heart  of  thine, 
You  loved  me  better  than  before. 
Dear  Mother,   Mother  mine. 

—  Anon. 


TF  I  was  hanged  on  the  highest  hill, 
-'■  Mother  o'  mine,  oh.  Mother  o'  mine, 
I  know  whose  love  would  follow  me  still. 
Mother  o'  mine,  oh,  Mother  o'  mine. 

—  Rudyard  Kipling- 


'  I  ^O  the  one  who  loves  us  when  fortune's  bright, 

■■-      But  more  when  the  sky's  overcast ; 

Whose  heart  reveals,  yet  never  conceals, 

Our  Mother!  first  and  last. 

—  Anon. 

33 


THE  LOVE  OF  MOTHER. 

T  T /"HAT  is  there  down  so  deep 

'  '      But  a  mother's  love  will  find  it? 
Cover  it  over  and  hide  it  well, 

Never  with  lips,  nor  by  glance  tell; 
Have  you  a  trouble?     Wherever  it  dwell, 

Mother's  love  will  find  it  out. 

What  is  there  up  so  high, 

But  mother's  love  can  share  it? 
All  that  is  noble,  and  good  and  true, — 
That  which  enriches  and  blesses  you, — 
WTiat  you  accomplish  and  purpose  to  do; 
Mother's  love  shares  it  all. 

Is  anything  too  hard 

For  mother  to  do  for  you? 
No,  obstacles  vanish,  and  cares  grow  light. 
Dangers  diminish  and  clouds  become  bright 
Burdens  grow  small,  and  roll  out  of  sight 

For  Mother  when  doing  for  you. 

—  Anon. 


34 


MOTHER 

TN  the  heavens  above, 
■■■  The  angels,  whispering  to  one  another, 
Can    find,    among   their   luring  terms   of   love 
None  so  devotional  as  that  of  "  mother." 

—  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


r\  WONDER-WORD !     That  throbs  and  thrills 
^^   Through  heart  of  man  and  ever  fills 
The  universe  with  endless  song 
Echoing  from  angelic  throng! 

Its  magic  quiets  human  pain ; 

It  bids  the  hopeless  hope  again; 

It  stills  the  helpless  infant's  cry, 

Gives  strength  to  live;  gives  faith  to  die. 

First  friend  of  joy!     Last  at  the  cross! 
Joy  of  our  gain!     Comfort  for  loss! 
The  peaceful  gift  —  to  earth-born  given ; 
Love  of  the  Heart,  of  Home,  of  Heaven! 

—  Emily  Selinger. 


35 


THE  FAITH  OF  MOTHER 

TT  7"HEN  I  recall  the  joys  of  my  forty-four  years 
^  '  of  public  ministry,  I  often  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  how  near  I  came  to  losing  them.  For 
many  months  my  mind  was  balancing  between  the 
pulpit  and  the  attractions  of  a  legal  and  political 
career.  A  single  hour  in  a  village  prayer  meeting 
turned  the  scale.  But  perhaps  behind  it  all  a 
mother's  prayers  were  moving  the  poised  balance, 
and  made  souls  outweigh  silver  and  eternity  out- 
weigh  time."  _  7^;^,,^,,,  ^,  Quyler. 


THE  simple  gospel  of  the  humble  carpenter, 
preached  by  the  twelve  fishermen,  has  sur- 
vived the  centuries,  and  outlives  all  other  philoso- 
phies of  eighteen  hundred  years.  I  am  not  versed 
in  the  terminology  of  philosophies.  I  believe  them 
to  be  of  little  use  to  reach  the  hearts,  and  to 
influence  the  action  of  simple  men.  .  .  .  The 
simple  faith  of  my  mother  is  good  enough  for  me. 
If  we  believe  this  faith,  what  harm?  If  we  dis- 
believe it  and  thereby  do  wrong,  what  of  our 
future?  —ChaunceyM.Depew. 

36 


I 


THE  CHRISTIAN  MOTHER 

ONCE  met  a  thoughtful  scholar.  He  said  that 
for  years  he  read  every  book  that  had  assailed 
the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  he  would  have 
become  an  infidel  but  for  three  reasons:  "First," 
said  he,  "  I  am  a  man.  I  am  going  somewhere. 
To-night  I  am  a  day  nearer  the  grave  than  I  was 
last  night.  I  have  read  all  that  such  books  can  tell 
me;  they  shed  not  one  ray  of  hope  upon  the  dark- 
ness. They  shall  not  take  away  the  guide  and  leave 
me  stone  blind.  Second,  I  had  a  mother.  I  saw 
her  go  down  into  the  dark  valley  where  I  am  going, 
and  she  leaned  upon  an  unseen  arm  as  calmly  as  a 
child  goes  to  sleep  on  the  breast  of  its  mother.  I 
know  that  she  was  not  dreaming.  Third,  I  have 
three  motherless  daughters.  They  have  no  pro- 
tection but  myself.  I  would  they  should  die  rather 
than  I  should  leave  them  in  this  sinful  world,  if 
you  blot  out  from  it  the  teachings  of  the  Gospel." 

—  Bishop  Whipple. 


THERE  is  one  point  on  which,  till  his  dying 
day,    her   child   can   be   made   to    feel  —  his 
mother's  influence.  —J.  M.  Matthews. 

37 


149058 


MY  DREAM 

A    VOICE  came  softly  to  me  in  my  dreams 

And  wakened  me  and  breathed  a  word  in  tone 
So  gentle  that,  although  I  was  alone 
I  put  my  hand  out  pleadingly;  it  seems 
A  spell  was  cast  —  again  a  spirit  word 
Was  whispered  —  one  I  long  ago  had  heard. 


Again  she  spoke,  and  then  to  me  it  seemed 
That  I  was  back  once  more  to  infancy ; 
And  all  those  old  sweet  things  she  said  to  me. 

Made  heart  give  thanks  to  God  that  I  had  dreamed ; 
Those  dear  old  days,  when  I  was  "just  her  Boy," 
I  understood  too  late  to  know  the  joy. 

And  then  I  was  alone  —  and  still  not  so. 
For  memory  was  left,  and  fancy  could 
Point  out  the  very  spot  where  she  had  stood 
And  made  a  Mecca  for  me  —  for  I  know 

That  even  though  'twas  but  a  dream,  this  part 
was  true  —  I  heard  her  say  this  word,  "  Sweet- 
heart." —  M.  N.  Baker. 


38 


LITTLE  MOTHER  OF  MINE 

MOTHER,  O  mother!  the  years  are  so  lonely, 
Filled  but  with  weariness,  doubt  and  regret! 
Can't  you  come  back  to  me,  for  to-night  only, 
Mother,  my  mother 
And  sing  "  Little  brother 
Sleep,    for    thy   mother    bends   over    thee   yet ! " 
—  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

THE  years  have  altered  the  form  and  the  life, 
But  the  heart  is  unchanged  by  time, 
And  still  he  is  only  thy  boy  as  of  old, 
O  little  Mother  of  Mine. 

—  Walter  H.  Brown. 

MOTHER  is  rocking  thy  lowly  bed 
All  night  long,  all  night  long, 
Happy  to  smooth  thy  curly  head. 

To  hold  thy  hand  and  to  sing  her  song; 
'Tis  not  of  the  hill-folk  dwarfed  and  old, 
Nor  the  song  of  thy  father,  stanch  and  bold, 
And  the  burthen  it  beareth  is  not  of  gold: 
But  it's  "  Love,  love!  nothing  but  love  — 
Mother's  love  for  dearie!  " 

—  Eugene  Field. 

39 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE 

A    MOTHER'S   Love  —  how  sweet  the  name! 
"*■  ^    What  is  a  Mother's  love?  — 
A  noble,  pure,  and  tender  flame 
Enkindled  from  above, 
To  bless  a  heart  of  earthly  mold; 
The  warmest  love  that  can  grow  cold: 
This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

To  bring  a  helpless  babe  to  light, 
Then,  while  it  lies  forlorn. 
To  gaze  upon  that  dearest  sight 
And  feel  herself  new-born. 
In  its  existence  lose  her  own, 
And  live  and  breathe  in  it  alone: 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

To  mark  its  growth  from  day  to  day, 

Its  opening  charms  admire. 

Catch  from  its  eye  the  earliest  ray 

Of  intellectual  fire; 

To  smile  and  listen  while  it  talks 

And  lend  a  finger  when  it  walks ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

—  James  Montgomery. 
40 


MY  MOTHER  DEAR 

^  I  ''HERE  was  a  place  in  childhood  that  I  remem- 

**■  ber  well, 

And  there  a  voice  of  sweetest  tone  bright  fairy  tales 

did  tell; 
And   gentle  words  and   fond   embrace  were  given 

with  joy  to  me 
When  I  was  in  that  happy  place,  upon  my  Mother's 

knee. 

When  fairy  tales  were  ended,  "  Good-night,"  she 

softly  said. 
And  kissed  and  laid  me  down  to  sleep  within  my 

tiny  bed ; 
And  holy  words  she  taught  me  there  —  me-thinks 

I  yet  can  see 
Her  angel  eyes,  as  close  I  knelt  beside  my  Mother's 

knee. 

In  sickness  of  my  childhood,  the  perils  of  my  prime, 
The  sorrows  of  my  riper  years,  the  cares  of  every 

time ; 
When  doubt  and  danger  weighed  me  down,  then 

pleading  all  for  me, 
It  was  a  fervent  prayer  to  Heaven  that  bent  my 

Mother's  knee.  — Samuel  Lover. 

41 


M 


THE  NAME  OF  MOTHER 

OTHER  is  the  name  for  God  in  the  lips  and 
hearts  of  little  children, 

—  William  M.   Thackeray. 


TUST  as  a  mother  with  sweet,  pious  face, 
^    Yearns  toward  her  little  children  from  her  seat. 
Gives  one  a  kiss,  another  an  embrace, 

Takes  this  upon  her  knees,  that  on  her  feet; 
And  while  her  actions,  looks,  complaints,  pretenses. 

She  learns  their  feelings  and  their  various  will, 
To  this  a  book,  to  that  a  word  dispenses, 

And  whether  stern  or  smiling,  loves  them  still, — 
So  Providence  for  us,  high,  infinite. 
Makes  our  necessities  its  watchful  task. 

Hearkens  to  all  our  prayers,  helps  all  our  wants, 
And  e'en  if  it  denies  what  seems  our  right, 
Either  denies  because  'twould  have  us  ask. 

Or  seems  but  to  deny,  and  in  denying  grants. 

Felicaja,  translated  by 

—  Leigh  Hunt. 


A 


S  one  whom  a  mother  comf  orteth,  so  will  I  com- 
fort you.  —  Isaiah. 
42 


BECAUSE  SHE  IS  A  MOTHER 

OHE  broke  the  bread  into  two  fragments,  and 
^  gave  them  to  the  children,  who  ate  with  avidity. 
"  She  hath  kept  none  for  herself,"  grumbled 
the  Sergeant.  "  Because  she  is  not  hungr)',"  said 
a  soldier.  "  Because  she  is  a  mother,"  said  the 
Sergeant.  —  Victor  Hugo. 


N 


O  language  can  express  the  power  and  beauty 
and  heroism  of  a  mother's  love. 

—  Chapin. 


*"  I  ''HE  mother  looketh  from  her  latticed  pane  — 

■*■      Her  children's  voices  echoing  sweet  and  clear; 
With  merry  leap  and  bound  her  side  they  gain. 
Offering  their  wild  field-flow'rets;  all  are  dear, 
Yet  still  she  listens  with  an  absent  ear; 
For  while  the  strong  and  lovely  round  her  press, 
A  halt  uneven  step  sounds  drawing  near; 
And  all  she  leaves,  that  crippled  child  to  bless. 
Holding  him  to  her  heart  with  cherishing  caress. 

—  Sarah  Elizabeth  Norton. 

43 


LINCOLN'S  TRIBUTE  TO  HIS  MOTHER 

"PROBABLY  no  words  of  Lincoln's  have  been 
-■■  more  widely  quoted,  or  are  more  character- 
istic of  his  noble  nature,  than  this  grand  tribute  to 
his  mother :  "  All  that  I  am,  or  hope  to  be,  I  owe  to 
my  angel  mother  —  blessings  on  her  memory!  " 

Surely  none,  more  than  he,  could  claim  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  a  self-made  man,  and  yet  he  was 
willing  to  ignore  all  his  midnight  study,  arduous 
labor  and  self-sacrificing  toil,  and  lay  the  glory  of 
his  achievements  at  the  feet  of  the  gentle  woman 
who  so  tenderly  cared  for  him  during  his  infancy, 
instructed  him  in  the  stories  of  the  Bible,  and  in 
the  rudiments  of  reading  and  writing,  instilled 
within  him  a  desire  for  intellectual  improvement, 
and  left  him  when  only  a  little  lad  of  nine  with 
this  parting  benediction:  "Be  a  good  boy,  be  kind 
to  Sarah  and  your  father  —  live  as  I  have  taught 
you  and  love  your  Heavenly  Father." 

—  Austin  Cook. 


T-  REMEMBER  my  mother's  prayers  —  and  they 
■*■  have  always  followed  me.  They  have  clung 
to  me  all  my  life.  — Abraham  Lincoln. 

44 


MOTHERS  OF  DISTINGUISHED  MEN 

"IX  7" HAT  a  debt  of  gratitude  the  world  owes  to       J^ 

'  *  godly  minded  Monica !  She  trained  up  Au- 
gustine to  be  the  champion  defender  of  the  gospel 
in  a  day  of  dark  apostasies.  But  for  good,  faithful 
Susannah  Wesley,  the  world  might  never  have  been 
enriched  with  John  and  Charles,  the  twain  founders 
of  Methodism,  Richard  Cecil  says  that  in  his 
early  manhood  he  tried  hard  to  be  an  infidel.  But 
he  never  could  get  over  the  unanswerable  arguments 
of  his  own  mother's  godly  life  and  influence.  They 
were  too  much  for  him;  they  conquered  him  for 
Christ. 

—  Theodore  L.  Cuyler. 

T  OOK  to  the  childhood  of  Matthew  Henr>^ 
"*-^  Edwards,  Dwight,  Payson,  and  the  whole 
army  of  those  who  are  this  day  owned  and  hailed 
as  the  champions  of  truth,  and  you  will  find  them 
all  to  have  been  sons  of  pious  and  faithful  mothers. 
.  .  .  There  is  no  influence  so  powerful  as  a  moth- 
er's on  the  coming  destinies  of  the  church  and 
world.  And  to  her,  also,  it  falls  to  train  those  who 
are  to  do  for  their  generation  what  she  has  done 
for  hers.  — J.  M.  Matthews. 

45 


THE  KNIGHT'S  TOAST 

OT.  LEON  raised  his  kindling  eye, 
^^  And  lifted  sparkling  cup  on  high, 
"  I  drink  to  one,"  he  said, 
"  Whose  memory  never  may  depart, 
Deep  graven  on  this  grateful  heart, 
Till  memory  be  dead; 

"  To  one,  whose  love  for  me  shall  last. 
When  lighter  passions  long  have  past. 
So  holy  'tis  and  true; 
To  one  w^hose  love  hath  longer  dwelt, 
More  deeply  fixed,  more  keenly  felt, 
Than  any  pledged  by  you." 

St.  Leon  paused,  as  if  he  would 

Not  breathe  her  name  in  careless  mood, 

Thus  lightly  to  another ; 

Then  bent  his  noble  head,  as  though 

To  give  that  word  the  reverence  due. 

And  gently  said,  "My  Mother!" 

—  Anon. 
Attributed  to  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


46 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  MOTHER 

*  I  ^O-NIGHT,  looking  back  over  the  long  years 
-■•  since  you  left  me,  I  crave  with  every  fiber  of 
my  manhood,  which  j'ou  built,  to  weave  a  garland  of 
words  tied  with  my  ambitions  and  lay  them  with  my 
soul  at  your  dear  feet  —  a  perfect  tribute  for  the 
one  woman ! 

Out  of  my  heart's  blood  would  I  write  of  what 
you  have  meant  to  me  these  long,  long  years. 

You  were  always  so  patient  and  loving,  always 
gentle  and  forgiving.  ^  Giving  me  always  the  best 
of  your  life,  asking  nothing  in  return  but  that  mine 
should  be  a  happy  and  worthy  one.  Ready  to  efface 
yourself  or  needs  that  I  be  served  thereby.  The  one 
woman  in  the  world  who  loved  me  perfectly! 

It  is  to  you  and  your  influence  and  your  love 
that  I  owe  all  the  success  I  may  be  to-day  as  citizen, 
home  maker  or  man. 

Through  the  gateway  of  your  pain  I  came  into 
life;  through  your  building  and  your  counsel  that 
life  has  achieved  worldly  success,  and  when  the  time 
comes  that  the  life  be  released  to  the  realms  beyond, 
for  the  happiness  there  I  humbly  ask  the  Giver  of 
All  to  send  me  to  the  one,  the  perfect  woman  — 
my  mother.  —  Chicago   Tribune. 

47 


MOTHERS  OF  GREAT  MEN 

\  X  yTHATEVER  I  have  done  in  my  life  has  simply 
'  '      been  due  to  the  fact  that  when  I  was  a  child 
my  mother  daily  read  with  me  a  part  of  the  Bible, 
and  made  me  learn  a  part  of  it  by  heart. 

—  Wendell  Phillips. 

'VT'OU  speak  of  a  mother's  love,  and  ask,  "  What 
''■  love  is  comparable  to  hers?  "  An  allusion  like 
this  dissolves  my  heart,  and  causes  it  to  grow  liquid 
as  water.  I  had  a  mother  once,  who  cared  for  me 
with  such  a  passionate  regard,  who  loved  me  so  in- 
tensely, that  no  language  can  describe  the  yearning 
of  her  soul.  —  William  Lloyd  Garrison. 

/^  PIOUS  mother!  kind,  good,  brave  and  truth- 
^^  ful  soul  as  I  have  ever  found,  and  more  than 
I  have  ever  elsewhere  found  in  this  world,  your 
poor  Tom,  long  out  of  his  schooldays  now,  has 
fallen  very  lonely,  very  lame  and  broken  in  this 
pilgrimage  of  his ;  and  you  cannot  help  him  or  cheer 
him  by  a  kind  word  any  more.  From  your  grave 
in  the  kirkyard,  yonder,  you  bid  him  trust  in  God, 
and  that  also  he  will  try  if  he  can  understand  and  do. 

—  Thomas  Carlyle. 

48 


NE'ER  SHALL  I  FORGET 

DEAR  mother !  ne'er  shall  I  forget 
Thy  brow,  thine  eye,  thy  pleasant  smile ; 
Though  in  the  sea  of  death  hath  set 
Thy  star  of  life,  my  guide  awhile, 
Oh,  never  shall  thy  form  depart 
From  the  bright  pictures  in  my  heart. 

And  like  a  bird  that  from  the  flowers, 
Wing-weary  seeks  her  wonted  nest, 
My  spirit,  e'en  in  manhood's  hours. 
Turns  back  in  childhood's  Home  to  rest; 
The  cottage,  garden,  hill,  and  stream, 
Still  linger  like  a  pleasant  dream. 

And  while  to  one  engulfing  grave 

By  Time's  swift  tide  we're  driven. 

How  sweet  the  thought  that  every  wave 

But  bears  us  nearer  Heaven! 

There  we  shall  meet,  when  life  is  o'er 

In  that  blest  Home,  to  part  no  more. 

—  William  Goldsmith  Brown. 


49 


THE  IDEAL  MOTHER 

THE  ideal  woman  feels  that  all  the  children  of 
want  —  bodily,  mental,  moral  want,  the  in- 
fant of  days  or  the  man  bowed  with  age, —  are  all 
children  whom  the  Lord  has  given  her,  and  over 
a  wide  and  ever-widening  circle  beams  the  radiance 
of  her  spotless  motherhood.       —  Gail  Hamilton. 


TT  is  a  wonderful  thing,  a  mother;  other  folks 
■■■  can  love  you,  but  only  your  mother  understands. 
She  works  for  you,  looks  after  you,  loves  you,  for- 
gives you  anything  you  may  do,  understands  you, 
and  then  the  only  bad  thing  she  ever  does  to  you 
is  to  die  and  leave  you. 

—  Baroness  Von  Hutton. 


^  I  ''HE  loss  of  a  mother  is  always  felt ;  even  though 
-■•  her  health  may  incapacitate  her  from  taking 
any  active  part  in  the  care  of  the  family,  still  she  is 
a  sweet  rallying  point,  around  which  affection  and 
obedience  and  a  thousand  tender  endeavors  to  please, 
concentrate ;  and  —  dreary  is  the  blank  when  such 
a  point  is  withdrawn.  —  Lamartine. 

50 


THE  HEROISM  OF  THE  MOTHER 

TS  not  the  highest  heroism  that  which  is  free  even 

■*•   from   the  approbation  of   the  best  and  wisest? 

The  heroism  which  is  known  only  to  our  Father, 

who  seeth  in  secret?     The  God-like  lives  lived  in 

obscurity?     How  many  thousands  of  heroines  there 

must  be  now,  of  whom  we  shall  never  know.     But 

still  they  are  there.     They  sow  in  secret  the  seed 

of  which  we  pluck  the  flower,  and  eat  the  fruit,  and 

know  not  that  we  pass  the  sower  daily  in  the  streets. 

One  form  of  heroism  —  the  most  common,  and  j^et 

the  least  remembered  of  all  —  namely,  the  heroism 

of  the  average  mother.     Ah!  when  I  think  of  that 

broad  fact,  I  gather  hope  again  for  poor  humanity ; 

and   this   dark  world   looks  bright  —  this   diseased 

world  looks  wholesome  to  me  once  more  —  because, 

whatever  else  it  is  not  full  of,  it  is  at  least  full  of 

mothers. 

—  Charles  Kingsley. 


A 


LL  that  is  purest  and  best  in  man  is  but  the    • 
echo  of  a  mother's  benediction. 


The  hero's  deeds  are  a  mother's  prayers  fulfilled. 

—  Frederic  W.  Morton. 

51 


THE  BOOK  OF  BOOKS 

WE  search  the  world  for  truth;  we  cull  the 
good,  the  pure,  the  beautiful 
From  graven  stone  and  written  scroll,  from  all  old 

flower  fields  of  the  soul. 
And,  weary  seekers  of  the  best,  we  come  back  laden 

from  our  quest, 
To  find  that  all  the  sages  said  is  in  the  book  our 
Mothers  read.    —  John  Greenleaf  JVhittier. 

THE  Bible,  of  all  books,  when  tenderly  in- 
terpreted to  the  young  mind,  becomes  a  source 
of  infinite  culture  and  joy.  The  mother  of  Phillips 
Brooks  always  told  Bible  stories  to  her  boys  after 
they  were  in  bed,  and  who  may  compute  the  in- 
fluences communicated  in  this  manner  to  the  great 
preacher  who  was  destined  to  become  so  potent  a 
factor  in  the  world  of  thought? 

—  Lilian  Whiting. 

NO  great  nation  can  survive  its  own  temptations 
and  its  own  follies  that  does  not  indoctrinate 
its  children  in  the  Word  of  God. 

—  Woodrow  Wilson. 

52 


MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE 

"1%  yTY  mother's  Bible  —  companion  of  her  best  and 
"^  -*■  holiest  hours,  source  of  her  unspeakable  Chris- 
tian life  and  character.  It  was  constantly  by  her 
side;  and  as  her  eyes  grew  dim  with  age,  more  and 
more  precious  to  her  became  the  well-worn  pages. 
One  morning,  just  as  the  stars  were  fading  into  the 
dawn  of  the  coming  Sabbath,  she  passed  on  beyond 
the  stars  and  beyond  the  morning,  and  entered  into 
the  rest  of  eternal  Sabbath  —  to  look  upon  the  face 
of  Him  whom,  not  having  seen,  she  had  loved. 
And  now,  no  legacy  is  to  me  more  precious  than  the 
old  Bible.  Years  have  passed ;  but  it  stands  there  on 
the  shelf,  eloquent  as  ever,  witness  of  a  beautiful 
life,  and  a  silent  monitor  to  the  living.  When 
sometimes  I  come  back  to  the  study,  weary  of  the 
world  and  tired  of  men  —  of  men  that  are  so  hard 
and  selfish,  and  a  world  that  is  so  unfeeling  —  I 
seem  to  hear  that  Book  saying,  as  with  the  well-re- 
membered tones  of  a  voice,  long  silent:  "  Let  not 
your  heart  be  troubled."  "  For  what  is  your  life? 
It  is  even  as  a  vapor."  "  Be  not  cast  down,  my 
son."  Then  my  spirit  becomes  calm,  and  the  little 
world  sinks  into  its  true  place  again. 

—  Bishop  Gilbert  Haven. 
53 


THE  MOTHER'S  SECRET 

T  TOW  sweet  the  sacred  legend  —  if  unblamed 
In    my    slight    verse    such    holy    things    are 
named  — 
Of  Mary's  secret  hours  of  hidden  joy, 
Silent,  but  pondering  on  her  wondrous  boy! 

•  ••••••• 

The  wondering  shepherds  told  their  breathless  tale 
Of  the  bright  choir  that  woke  the  sleeping  vale; 
Told  how  the  skies  with  sudden  glory  flamed, 
Told  how  the  shining  multitude  proclaimed, 
"Joy,  joy  to  earth!  Behold  the  hallowed  morn! 
In  David's  city  Christ  the  Lord  was  bom!" 
"  Glory  to  God!  "  let  angels  shout  on  high, 
"Good-will  to  men!"  the  listening  earth  reply! 
They  spoke  with  hurried  words  and  accents  wild; 
Calm  in  his  cradle  slept  the  heavenly  child. 
No  trembling  word  the  mother's  joy  revealed  — 
One  sigh  of  rapture,  and  her  lips  were  sealed; 
Unmoved  she  saw  the  rustic  train  depart, 
But  kept  their  words  to  ponder  in  her  heart. 

Youth  fades;  love  droops;  the  leaves  of  friendship 

fall: 
A  mother's  secret  hope  outlives  them  all. 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

54 


MARY,  THE  MOTHER  OF  JESUS 

A  T  God's  right  hand  sits  one  who  was  a  child, 
■*■  ^  Born  of  the  humblest,  and  who  here  abode 
Till  of  our  sorrow  He  had  sufFered  all. 
They  now  who  weep,  remember  that  He  wept. 
The  tempted,  the  despised,  the  sorrowing,  feel 
That  Jesus,  too,  drank  of  these  cups  of  woe. 
And  oh,  if  our  joys  be  tasted  less  — 
If  all  but  one  passed  from  His  lips  away  — 
That  one  —  a  mother's  love  —  by  His  partaking. 
Is  like  a  thread  of  heaven  spun  through  our  life. 
And  we  in  the  untiring  watch,  the  tears. 
The  tenderness  and  fond  trust  of  a  mother, 
May  feel  a  heavenly  closeness  with  God, 
For  such,  all  human  in  its  blest  excess 
Was  Mary's  love  for  Jesus. 

—  2V.  F.  Willis. 


A  ND  since  that  hour  when  first  for  thee,  the 
■^  ^   Hope  of  all  the  ages  smiled. 

And  love  and  loss  were  reconciled,  no 
Mother's  heart  but  thrills  to  see 

The  world's  Redeemer  in  her  child. 

—  Emily  Huntington  Miller. 

55 


MOTHER'S  WORK 

TF  thy  work  be  holding  dimpled  cheeks  of  babies 

■*■       to  thy  breast, 

Fashioning  small  garments  where  the  needle  moves 
to  inward  tune. 

Stitching  dainty  scallops  for  a  little  rounded  wrist, 

Or  knitting  a  silk  sheathing  for  feet  as  soft  as  rose- 
leaves. 

Count  thyself  a  sister  of  the  gentle  Judean  woman, 

Mother  of  a  Saviour!  How  knowest  thou  the  out- 
come 

Of  this  beauteous  bud  of  home?  With  thee  lies 
the  unfolding. 

Make  thy  garden  fragrant  with  tender  self-denying. 
With  love  purged  pure  by  prayer,  woo  the  opening 

blossom. 
Thine  a  holy  business  set  thee  by  the  Father ; 
All  its  pains  rewarded  by  gifts  of  honeyed  kisses, 
And  angel  looks  that  babies  bring  from  heaven. 
Clasping  of  soft  arms,  and  murmuring  of  lovers 
Innocent  as  birds  in  the  dewy  boughs  of  Maytime. 

—  Mary  Frances  Butts. 


56 


THE  SHADOW  OF  A  MOTHER'S  LOVE 

^T /"HAT  are  Raphael's  Madonnas  but  the  shadow 
"  "      of  a  mother's  love  fixed  in  permanent  outlines 
forever?  —  Thomas  JVentworth  Higginson. 

TT  never  dies, —  a  mother's  love  strengthens  vi^ith 

"*■       every  ill  that  may  betide; 

In  every  phase  of  life  its  waters  move  with  current 

strong,  and  fathomless,  and  wide. 
From  the  heart  oft  other  flames  may  rise, 
And  while  they  seem  as  warm  and  grand  and  high, 
The  incense  of  one  lives  to  reach  the  skies,  a  moth- 
er's tender  love  can  never  die. 

—  E.  O.  Jewel. 

T    OVE !  Love !  —  there  are  soft  smiles  and  gentle 

-*— '       words, 

And  there  are  faces,  skillful  to  put  on  the  look  we 

trust  in  —  and  'tis  mockery  all.  .  .  . 
Therfe  is  none  in  all  this  cold  and  hollow  world, 

no  font 
Of  deep,  strong,  deathless  love  save  that  within 
A  Mother's  heart. 

—  Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 
57 


THE  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE 

''  I  ''HERE  are  very  few  who  do  not  feel  them- 
-■■  selves  indebted  to  the  influence  that  clustered 
around  their  cradles,  for  whatever  good  there  may 
be  in  their  character  and  condition.  Home,  based 
upon  Christian  marriage,  is  so  evident  an  institution 
of  God,  that  man  must  become  profane  before  he 
can  deny  it.  Of  this  realm  woman  is  the  queen. 
It  takes  the  cue  and  hue  from  her.  .  .  .  The  men  of 
the  nation  are  what  these  mothers  make  them  as  a 
rule;  and  the  voice  that  those  men  speak  in  the  ex- 
pression of  power,  is  the  voice  of  the  woman  who 
bore  and  bred  them. 

—  Scribner's  Monthly. 


T  BELIEVE  I  should  have  been  swept  away  by 
the  flood  of  infidelity  if  it  had  not  been  for 
one  thing:  the  remembrance  of  the  time  when  my 
sainted  mother  used  to  make  me  kneel  by  her  side, 
taking  my  little  hands  folded  in  hers,  and  cause  me 
to  repeat  the  Lord's  Prayer. 

—  Thomas  Randolph. 


58 


THE  ROCKING-CHAIR  THRONE 

T  ET  us  glorify  the  vocation  of  motherhood  above 
"^^  all  other,  for  the  only  queen  that  shall  survive 
is  the  mother  on  the  rocking-chair  throne,  with  a 
curly-headed  subject  kneeling  by  her  side,  a  soft  hand 
on  its  pure  forehead,  and  its  sweet  voice  saying, 
"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep."  But  that  mother 
must  be  regent  over  all  earthly  powers,  even  the 
divine  one  that  dares  invoke  another  life;  she  must 
be  God's  and  her  own,  a  free  woman  to  whom  shall 
never  come  the  annunciation  of  her  highest  office 
and  ministry',  save  from  the  deepest  intuitions  of  her 
nature  responding  to  the  voice  of  a  love  so  pure  that 
it  is  patient  and  bides  its  time  until  the  handmaid 
of  the  Lord  shall  say:  "Be  it  unto  thee  even  as 
thou  wilt."  — Frances  E.   IVillard. 

"j\  yrOTHER'S  old  chair  has  stopped  rocking  for 
-^  -*■  a  good  many  years.  It  may  be  up  in  the  loft 
or  garret,  but  it  holds  a  queenly  power  yet.  .  .  . 
When  the  son  came  into  the  room  where  his  dead 
mother  lay,  he  cried  out,  "  What  your  life  could  not 
do,  death  shall  effect.  This  moment  I  give  my 
heart  to  God."  And  he  kept  his  promise.  An- 
other victory  for  the  vacant  chair. 

—  T.  Deii'itt  Talmage. 

59 


MOTHER 

VI/'HEN  first  I  was,  the  world  of  sound 

Fell  strangely  on  my  baby  ear  ; 
All  meaning  blurred,  until  their  came 
Your  voice,  my  dear. 

And  now,  where  paths  of  life  divide 
In  ways  I  cannot  understand, 

The  blur  returns,  until  I  feel 
On  mine,  your  hand. 

The  sun  has  set  the  clouds  aflame, 

The  rose  is  perfumed  by  the  dew, 

But,  miracle  of  miracles. 
The  heart  of  you! 

—  Anne  Herendeen. 


lyrOTHERHOOD  is  priced 

Of  God,  at  price  no  man  may  dare 
To  lessen  or  misunderstand. 

—  Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 


60 


MY  MOTHER 

\/^OU  painted  no  Madonnas 
■■•     On  chapel  walls  in  Rome; 
But  with  a  touch  diviner, 

You  lived  one  in  your  home. 

You  wrote  no  lofty  poems 

That  critics  counted  art ; 
But  with   a  nobler  vision, 

You  lived  them  in  your  heart. 

You  carved  no  shapeless  marble 

To  some  high  soul-design ; 
But  with  a  finer  sculpture, 

You  shaped  this  soul  of  mine. 

You  built  no  great  cathedrals 

That  centuries  applaud ; 
But  with  a  grace  exquisite, 

Your  life  cathedraled  God. 

Had  I  the  gift  of  Raphael 

Or  Michelangelo 
Oh,  what  a  rare  Madonna 

My  mother's  life  should  show! 

—  Thomas  W.  Fessenden. 
6i 


WHEN  MOTHER  CALLS 

'ITT'HEN  mother  calls  —  you  must  come  in! 

~  '      And  how  that  call  through  all  the  din 
Amid  the  childhood  memories  high, 
Is  ringing  still  within  your  ears! 
You  thought  it  very  awful  then 
To  leave  the  game  and  leave  the  fun 
And  just  because  your  mother  called 
To  have  to  say  good-bye  and  run. 

•  •  •  •  .  .  • 

You  chaffed  because  you  thought  it  soon, 
To  have  to  come,  'twas  early  yet; 
And  so  you  left  the  game  in  tune 
To  some  reluctant  spell  of  fret. 

When  mother  calls  —  so  different  seems 
The  memory  of  it  now  to  you;  .  .  . 
You  wouldn't  keep  her  waiting  there 
As  once  you  did.     You'd  hear  her  now 
And  leap  to  fly  along  the  air, 
And  lean  to  kiss  her  dear  old  brow. 
When  mother  calls  —  ah,  lads  of  life. 
Don't  keep  her  waiting  there  to  call! 
Put  down  the  tumult  and  the  strife, 
And  go  before  the  shadows  fall!      — Boston  Post. 

62 


THE  WAYS  OF  LOVE 

T  HOLD  that  this  is  true  — 

•■■     From  lads  in  love  with  their  mothers 

Our  bravest  heroes  grew^. 
Earth's  grandest  hearts  have  been  loving  hearts, 

Since  time  and  earth  began; 
And  the  boy  who  kissed  his  mother 

Is  every  inch  a  man!  — Anon. 


'  I  '*HE  ways  of  love  and  tenderness 

-*•      Are  never  out  of  style; 
Remember  this  and  tell  her  so  — 

Don't  wait  till  after  a  while. 
Let  not  affection  wane  with  years; 

It  waneth  not  for  you. 
Go,  put  your  arms  around  her  now  — 

Kiss  her  as  you  used  to  do. 


Life  does  not  hold  enough  of  years 

In  which  we  can  repay 
A  mother's  love  —  but  do  your  best 

Before  she  goes  away. 

—  Pittsburg  Gazette-Times. 

63 


>^« 


MEMORY'S  PICTURE 

'T^HROUGH  many  a  year  a  picture  clear 

Hung  just  above  my  bed; 
It  plainly  showed  a  shady  road 
That,  curving  gently,  led 
Past  shrub  and  tree,  till  I  could  see, 
Beside  a  blossoming  vine. 
My  mother  stand,  as  once  she  stood 
When  she  was  young,  and  I  was  good, 
In  days  all  sun  and  shine. 

I  saw  her  there,  so  sweet  and  fair, 
When  I  drove  off  to  school; 
I  knew  the  bliss  of  her  fond  kiss 
On  that  deep  porch  and  cool. 

The  change  and  strife  of  later  life, 
The  years  that  leave  me  gray, 
Have  taken,  too,  that  pictured  view; 
But  cannot  take  away 
The  memory  so  dear  to  me, 
That  fond  and  wistful  joy 
There  stands  my  home  and  mother's  there, 
So  young,  so  good,  so  sweet  and  fair. 
And  I'm  her  little  boy.     —  Oliver  Marble. 

64 


MEMORIES  OF  MOTHER 

I  CALL  the  old  time  back ;  I  bring  these  lays 
To  thee,  in  memory  of  the  summer  days 
When,  by  our  native  streams  and  forest  ways. 
We  dreamed  them  over ;  w^hile  the  rivulets  made 
Songs  of  our  own,  and  the  great  pine-trees  laid 
On  warm  moon-lights  the  masses  of  their  shade. 

And  she  was  with  us,  living  o'er  again 

Her  life  in  ours,  despite  of  years  and  pain  — 

The  autumn's  brightness  after  latter  rain. 

Beautiful  in  the  holy  peace  as  one 

Who  stands,  at  evening,  when  the  work  is  done, 

Glorified  in  the  setting  of  the  sun ! 

Her  memory  makes  our  common  landscape  seem 
Fairer  than  any  of  which  the  painters  dream. 
Lights  the  brown  hills  and  sings  in  every  stream ; 
For  she  whose  speech  was  always  truth's  pure  gold 
Heard,  not  unpleased,  its  simple  legends  told. 
And  loved  with  us  the  beautiful  and  old. 

—  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


65 


THE  NAME  OF  MOTHER 

nr^HE  light,  the  spell-word  of  the  heart, 

Our  guiding  star  in  weal  or  woe, 
Our  talisman  —  our  earthly  chart  — 
That  sweetest  name  that  earth  can  know. 

We  breathed  it  first  with  lisping  tongue 
When  cradled  in  her  arms  we  lay; 

Fond  memories  round  that  name  are  hung 
That  will  not,  cannot  pass  away. 

We  breathed  it  then,  we  breath  it  still. 
More  dear  than  sister,  friend,  or  brother ; 

The  gentle  power,  the  magic  thrill 
Awakened  by  the  name  of  Mother. 

—  Fanny  J.  Crosby. 


/~\   MAGICAL  word  may  it  never  die  from  the 

^-^       lips  that  love  to  speak  it. 

Nor  melt  away  from  the  trusting  hearts  that  even 

would  break  to  keep  it. 
Was  there  ever  a  name  that  lived  like  thine?  will 

there  ever  be  another? 
The  angels  have  reared  in  heaven  a  shrine  to  the 

holy  name  of  Mother.  — Anon. 

66 


MY  MOTHER 

IX  yTY  mother,  with  thy  calm  and  holy  brow 

And  high  devoted  heart,  which  suffered  still 
Unmurmuring,  through  each  degree  of  ill, 
Therefore  I  speak  of  thee ;  that  those  who  read 
That  trust  in  woman,  which  is  still  my  creed. 
Thy  early-widowed  image  may  recall 
And  greet  thy  nature  as  the  type  of  all. 

—  Sarah  Elizabeth  Norton. 

\  S  pure  and  sweet,  her  fair  brow  seemed  eternal 
"^  •*■       as  the  sky; 
And  like  the  brook's  low  song,  her  voice,  a  sound 

which  could  not  die. 
Sw^eet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds  were  in  her 

very  look; 
We  read  her  face,   as  one  who  reads  a  true  and 

holy  book.         —  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

T    OVE  unfailing,  kindly  counsel,  all  the  pleasure 
^~^  In  your  mere   delightful  presence,   and   your 

smile 
It  is  loss  that  none  may  map  or  measure; 
Life  will  feel  it  every  weary  mile. 

—  Roden  Noel. 

67 


MOTHER  OF  MINE 

1\ /TOTHER  of  mine,  I  see  your  face  in  every 

crowded  street. 
My  heart  is  light  when  I  recall  your  features  kind 

and  sweet. 
I  long  to  hear  your  voice  again,  and  see  your  face 

divine, 
I   send   with   this  my   heart's   best   love.   Mother, 
Mother  of  mine. 

—  E.  G. 


^  I  ""HERE'S  no  other  word  that's  spoken  'neath 

"*■  the  starry  sky  above, 

Can  so  touch  our  hearts  as  "  Mother  "  or  inspire 

so  pure  a  love. 
It  awakened  with  our  being,  and  in  sweet  maternal 

ways, 
It  was  hallowed  as  'twas  nurtured  in  our  happy 

childhood  days. 
In  our  eyes  and  thoughts  no  other  has  so  kind  and 

saintly  face, 
And  of  all  we  fondly  cherish,  none  can  ever  fill 

her  place. 

—  E.  B.  Grimes. 

68 


THE  HALLS  OF  MEMORY 

T  T /"HEN  I  am  sad  it  comes  to  me, 

*  *      A  tender  quiet  old  strain ; 
I  hear  her  voice  soft,  low  and  sweet, 
Take  up  the  song  again. 

•  •••••* 

Old,  sad  and  worn,  a  man  of  care, 
Life  grows  confused  to  me: 
The  things  that  were  I  have  forgot, 
Nor  care  for  things  to  be. 
Yet,  through  the  halls  of  memory, 
Comes  back  that  old,  old  strain, 
I  am  a  boy  —  my  mother  sings 
Her  old-time  song  again. 

—  Emma  M.  Johnson. 

A   S   one  who  stands  at  evening  by  the  ocean's 
*■  ^       lonely  shore 
May  hear  the  voice  of  Memory  above  the  breakers' 

roar, 
So,  calm  and  clear  and  beautiful  as  bells  for  curfew 

rung, 
I  hear  above  life's  surge  and   flow  the  songs  my 

mother  sung.  — Anon. 

69 


DEAR  OLD  MOTHERS 

T  LOVE  old  mothers  —  mothers  with  white  hair 
■^  And  kindly  eyes,  and  lips  grown  softly  sweet 
With  murmured  blessings  over  sleeping  babes. 

There  is  a  something  in  their  quiet  grace 
That  speaks  the  calm  of  Sabbath  afternoons  ; 
A  knowledge  in  their  deep,  unfaltering  eyes 
That  far  outreaches  all  philosophy. 

Time,  with  caressing  touch  about  them,  weaves 
The  silver-threaded  fairy-shawl  of  age. 
While  all  the  echoes  of  forgotten  songs 
Seemed  joined  to  lend  sweetness  to  their  speech. 

Old  Mothers!  as  they  pass  with  slow-timed  step, 
Their    trembling    hands    cling    gently    to    youth's 

strength. 
Sweet  mothers !  —  as  they  pass,  one  sees  again 
Old  garden-walks,  old  roses,  and  old  loves. 

—  Charles  S.  Ross. 

In  the  dear  old-fashioned  gardens,  where  hollyhocks 

and  lavender  grew, 
The  lads  with  ways  gallant  did  woo  our  mothers! 

the  sweetest  flowers  of  all.  — Anon. 

70 


DEAR  OLD-FASHIONED  MOTHER 

*"  I  '*HERE  is  a  home  where  an  old-fashioned 
"*■  mother  presides  like  a  queen.  Thank  God, 
some  of  us  have,  and  others  have  had,  old-fashioned 
mothers.  Dear,  old-fashioned,  sweet-faced  mother! 
Eyes  in  which  the  love-light  shone,  her  brown  hair 
threaded  with  silver,  lying  smoothly  on  the  faded 
cheek;  her  dear  hands,  worn  with  much  toil,  gently 
guiding  our  tottering  steps  in  childhood  and  smooth- 
ing our  pillow  in  sickness,  ever  reaching  out  to  us 
in  yearning  tenderness.  Precious  memory  of  an  old- 
fashioned  mother!  It  floats  to  us  now,  like  the 
powerful  perfume  of  some  fragrant  blossom.  The 
music  of  other  voices  may  be  lost,  but  the  entrancing 
memory  of  her  will  echo  in  our  souls  forever. 

— /.   Wilbur  Chapman. 

"DLESSED  is  the  memory  of  an  old-fashioned 
-*-'  mother.  It  floats  to  us  now  like  the  beautiful 
perfume  of  some  woodland  blossoms.  The  music  of 
our  voices  may  be  lost,  but  the  entrancing  melody 
of  hers  will  echo  in  our  souls  forever.  Other  faces 
will  fade  away  and  be  forgotten,  but  hers  will  shine 
on  until  the  light  from  Heaven's  portal  will  glorify 
our  own.  —  Anon. 

71 


MY  MOTHER'S  VOICE 

1\ /TY  mother's  voice,  how  often  creeps 
■^    '■■   It's  cadence  on  my  lonely  hours ! 
Like  healing  sent  on  wings  of  sleep 
Or  dew  to  the  unconscious  flowers. 
I  can  forget  her  melting  prayer 
When  leaping  pulses  madly  fly, 
But  in  the  still,  unbroken  air 
Her  gentle  tone  comes  stealing  by, 
And  years,  and  sin,  and  manhood  flee, 
And  leave  me  at  my  mother's  knee. 

—  Nathaniel  Parker  IVillis. 


T  NEVER  can  forget  the  voice 

■■■     That  always  made  my  heart  rejoice; 

Tho'  I  have  wandered  God  knows  where, 

Still  I  remember  mother's  prayer. 

Whene'er  I  think  of  her  so  dear, 

I  feel  her  angel  spirit  near; 

A  voice  comes  floating  on  the  air, 

Reminding  me  of  mother's  prayer. 

J.  W.  Van  De  V enter. - 


72 


NOW  I  LAY  ME  DOWN  TO  SLEEP 

i  i "VJO W  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep : 

•^^   I  pray  thee,  Lord,  my  soul  to  keep." 
Was  my  childhood's  early  prayer 
Taught  by  my  mother's  love  and  care. 
.  .  ,  Methinks  I  see  her  now, 
With  lovelit  eye  and  holy  brow, 
As,  kneeling  by  her  side  to  pray, 
She  gently  taught  me  how  to  say, 
"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  thee,  Lord,  my  soul  to  keep." 

Oh !  could  the  faith  of  childhood's  days, 
Oh !  could  its  little  hymn  of  praise, 
Oh!  could  its  simple,  joyous  trust 
Be  recreated  from  the  dust 
That  lies  around   a  wasted  life. 
The  fruit  of  many  a  bitter  strife! 
Oh!  then  at  night  in  prayer,  I'd  bend. 
And  call  my  God,  my  Father,  Friend. 
And  pray  with  childlike  faith  once  more 
The  prayer  my  mother  taught  of  yore, — 
"  Now,  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep : 
I  pray  thee.  Lord,  my  soul  to  keep." 

—  Eugene  Henry  Pullen. 

73 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP 

T>  ACKWARD,  turn  backward,  O  Time  in  your 
^       flight, 

Make  me  a  child  again,  just  for  to-night! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore ; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep :  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, —  rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  Mother-love  ever  has  shone; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient,  like  yours: 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain. 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, —  rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  have  listened  your  lullaby  song: 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace. 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, —  rock  me  to  sleep ! 

—  Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 
74 


ANSWER  TO  "  ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP  " 

1% yTY  child,  oh  my  child!  thou  art  weary  to-night, 

Thy  spirit  is  sad  and  dim  is  the  light; 
Thou  wouldst  call  me  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
To  the  trials  of  life,  to  thy  heart  as  of  yore; 
Thou  longest  again  for  my  fond  loving  care, 
For  my  kiss  on  thy  cheek,  for  my  hand  on  thy  hair ; 
But  angels  around  thee  their  loving  Avatch  keep, 
And  angels,  my  darling,  will  rock  thee  to  sleep. 

"  Backward?  "  Nay,  onward,  ye  swift  rolling  years! 
Gird  on  thy  armor,  keep  back  thy  tears; 
Count  not  thy  trials  nor  efforts  in  vain  — 
They'll  bring  thee  the  light  of  thy  childhood  again. 
Thou  shouldst  not  wear>^,  my  child,  by  the  way, 
But  watch  for  the  light  of  that  brighter  day; 
Not  tired  of  "  Sowing  for  others  to  reap," 
For  angels,  my  darling,  will  rock  thee  to  sleep. 

They'll  sing  thee  to  sleep  with  a  soothing  song, 
And  waking,  thou'lt  be  with  a  heavenly  throng ; 
And  thy  life,  with  its  toil  and  its  tears  and  pain 
Thou  wilt  then  see  has  not  been  in  vain. 

•  •*•••• 

Never  hereafter  to  suffer  or  weep. 
The  angels,  my  darling,  will  rock  thee  to  sleep. 

—  Anon. 

75 


MOTHER'S  ROCKING-CHAIR 

/^NCE  upon  a  time  she'd  take  me  — 
^^  Take  me  in  her  arms  each  night; 
Softly  croon  a  song  of  slumber, 

Bid  me  close  my  eyes  so  tight; 
For  she  said:  "  The  Sandman's  coming!  " 

Then  I  knew  I  must  beware, 
Lest  he  catch  me  with  them  open, 
As  we  rocked  in  that  old  chair. 
Long  that's  been;  I'm  worn  and  weary, 

And  I  would  that  I  could  rest 
With  her  arms  entwined  around  me, 

And  my  head  upon  her  breast. 
She  would  croon  to  me  so  softly, 

And  she'd  gently  stroke  my  hair; 
While  I'd  drift  away  to  Dreamland, 

Rocked  to  sleep  in  that  old  chair. 
But  that  chair  has  long  been  empty  — 

Where  it  is  I  do  not  know; 
And  the  songs  she  sang  so  sweetly. 

Were  forgotten  long  ago. 
But  to-night  I  feel  her  presence  — 

Seem  to  see  her  face  so  fair, 
And  to  hear  her  softly  crooning 
In  that  old,  old  rocking-chair. 

—  Harry  M.  Dean 
76 


THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR 

I  LOVE  it, —  I  love  it,  and  who  shall  dare 
To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair? 
I've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize  — 
I've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  and  embalmed  it  with 

sighs ; 
'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart, 
Not  a  tie  will  break  nor  a  link  will  start; 
Would  you  learn  the  spell  ?     A  mother  sat  there  ; 
And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour,  I  lingered  near 
The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear; 
And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give, 
To  fit  me  to  die  and  teach  me  to  live. 
She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide ; 
With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my  guide. 
She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer, 
As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat  and  watched  her  many  a  day, 
When  her  eyes  grew  dim  and  her  locks  were  gray, 
And  I  almost  worshipped  her  when  she  smiled 
And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 
Years  rolled  on,  but  the  last  one  sped  — 
My  idol  was  shattered  —  my  earth  star  fled; 
I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear. 
When  I  saw  her  die  in  the  old  arm-chair. 

—  Eliza  Cook. 

77 


MY  MOTHER 

1% /TY  Mother!     At  that  holy  name 
•^  Within  my  bosom  there  is  a  gush 

Of  feeling,  which  no  time  can  tame, 
A  feeling,  which,  for  years  of  fame, 
I  would  not,  could  not  crush! 

—  George  P.  Morris. 


'  I  '*HEY  tell  us  of  an  Indian  tree, 

-*■      Which,  howsoe'er  the  sun  and  sky 
May  tempt  its  boughs  to  wander  free. 

And  shoot  and  blossom  wide  and  high. 
Far  better  loves  to  bend  its  arms 

Downward  again  to  that  dear  earth. 
From  which  the  life  that  fills  and  warms 

Its  grateful  being  first  had  birth: 
'Tis  thus,  though  wooed  by  flattering  friends, 

And  fed  with  fame  —  if  fame  it  be  — 
This  heart,  my  own  dear  mother,  bends. 

With  true  love's  instinct,  back  to  thee. 

T —  Thomas  Moore. 


78 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

\  ND  canst  thou,  mother,  for  a  moment  think 
-*■  ^  That  we,  thy  children,  when  old  age  shall  shed 

Its  blanching  honors  on  thy  weary  head, 
Could  from  our  best  duties  ever  shrink? 
Sooner  the  sun  from  his  high  sphere  should  sink, 

Than  we,  ungrateful,  leave  thee  in  that  day. 
Or  shun  thee,  tottering  on  the  grave's  cold  brink. 

Banish  the  thought!  wher'er  our  steps  may  roam, 
O'er  smiling  plains,  or  wastes  without  a  tree, 
Still  will  fond  memory  point  our  hearts  to  thee. 

And  paint  the  pleasure  of  thy  peaceful  home ; 
While  duty  bids  us  all  thy  griefs  assuage, 
And  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  sinking  age. 

—  Henry   Kirke   White. 


T7  VEN  He  that  died  for  us  upon  the  cross,  in  the 
-■-^  last  hour  was  mindful  of  His  mother,  as  if  to 
teach  us  that  this  holy  love  should  be  our  last 
worldly  thought  —  the  last  point  of  earth  from 
which  the  soul  should  take  its  flight  for  heaven. 
—  Henry  JVadsworth  Longfellow. 


79 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  MOTHER 

TTOLD  diligent  converse  with  thy  children!  have 
■^  ■*■       them 

Morning  and  evening  round  thee;  love  thou  them, 
And  win  their  love  in  these  rare,  beauteous  years, 
For  only  while  the  short-lived  dream  of  childhood 
Lasts  are  they  thine;  —  no  longer!         — Anon. 

/^UR  mothers  are  our  earliest  instructors,  and 
^^  they  have  an  influence  over  us,  the  importance 
of  which,  for  time  and  eternity,  surpasses  the  power 
of  language  to  describe. 

The  formative  period  of  building  character  for 
eternity  is  in  the  nursery.  The  mother  is  queen  of 
that  realm  and  sways  a  sceptre  more  potent  than 
that  of  kings  and  priests.  — M.  H.  H. 

\  ND  say  to  mothers  what  a  holy  charge 
■^  ^  Is  theirs  —  with  what  a  kingly  power  their 

love 
Might  rule  the  fountains  of  the  newborn  mind. 

Warn  them  to  wake  at  early  morn  and  sow  good 
seed,  before  the  world  has  sown  its  tares. 

—  Lydia  H.  Sigourney. 
80 


MATERNAL  LOVE 

MATERNAL  love!  thou  word  that  sums  all 
bliss, 
Gives  and  receives  all  bliss, —  fullest  when  most 
Thou  givest!  spring-head  of  all  felicity, 
Deepest  when  most  is  drawn !  emblem  of  God ! 
O'erflowing  most  when  greatest  numbers  drink! 

—  Pollok. 

NEXT    to    Omnipotence,    a    mother's    is    the 
strongest  moral  influence  known  upon  earth. 
By  her  quick  intuition  she  is 
"  Ready  to  detect 
The  latent  seeds  of  evil:  to  encourage 
All  better  tastes  and  feelings,  and  to  fling 
So  bright  a  radiance  o'er  a  life  of  virtue 
That  children  seek  it  as  God's  glorious  gift." 
A  mother  is  both  the  morning  and  the  evening 
star  of  life.     The  light  of  her  eye  is  always  the  first 
to  rise,  and  often  the  last  to  set  upon  a  man's  day 
of  trial.  —  fV.  K.  Tweedie. 


A 


MOTHER'S  love,  in  a  degree,  sanctifies  the 
most  worthless  offspring. 

—  Hosea  Ballou. 
8x 


AS  A  FOND  MOTHER 

A  S  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
■*-  ■*■  Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to  bed, 
Half-willing,  half-reluctant  to  be  led. 
And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on  the  floor, 
Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door, 
Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 
By  promises  of  other  in  their  stead, 
Which,  though  more  splendid,  may  not  please  him 

more ; 
So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the  hand 
Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently  that  we  go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay, 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends  that  we  know. 
—  Henry  JVadsworth  Longfellow. 

"jlyTY    mother!     Manhood's    anxious    brow    and 

-*-*-*■       sterner  cares  have  long  been  mine; 

Yet  turn  I  to  thee  fondly  now,  as  when  upon  thy 

bosom's  shrine  '^ 

My  infant  griefs  were  gently  hushed  to  rest, 
And  thy  low  whispered  prayers  my  slumber  blessed. 

—  George  W.  Bethune. 

82 


HAPPY  MEMORIES 

*  I  '*HERE  is  one  rule  that  it  is  always  safe  to  en- 
"*■  force  in  the  family  —  the  rule  of  love  which 
will  send  each  child  to  bed  with  a  smile  on  its  lips 
and  peace  in  its  heart.  They  will  have  happier 
memories  of  their  childhood  when  they  have  gone 
out  from  the  home  nest  into  the  world,  and  they 
will  enshrine  in  their  hearts,  as  household  saints, 
the  mothers  who  gave  them  a  good-night  kiss  with 
smiles  and  benedictions  every  night  of  their  young 
lives. 

—  M.  L.  Rayne. 


"V  TEVER,  never  has  one  forgotten  his  pure,  right- 
-^  ^  educating  mother!  On  the  blue  mountains 
of  our  dim  childhood,  towards  which  we  ever  turn 
and  look,  stand  the  mothers  who  marked  out  to  us 
from  thence  our  life;  the  most  blessed  age  must  be 
forgotten  ere  we  can  forget  the  warmest  heart. 
You  wish,  O  woman,  to  be  ardently  loved,  and 
forever,  even  till  death.  Be,  then,  the  mothers  of 
your  children. 

—  Richter. 


83 


AT  FOURSCORE 

OHE  sits  in  the  gathering  shadows 
*^  By  the  porch  where  the  roses  blow 
And  her  thoughts  are  back  in  the  summer 
That  vanished  long  ago. 

She  forgets  the  graves  on  the  hillside, — 

She  forgets  that  she  is  old, 
And  remembers  only  the  gladness 

That  the  old  times  used  to  hold. 

She  hears,  as  of  old,  the  voices 
Of  the  dear  ones  who  are  dead; 

She  smooths  out  the  shining  tangles 
That  crown  each  little  head; 

She  kisses  the  faces  lifted 

To  her  as  in  days  of  old. 
And  the  heart  of  the  dreaming  mother 

Is  full  of  peace  untold. 

So,  while  the  night  comes  round  her, 
She  sits  with  her  children  there. 

Forgetting  the  years  that  took  them, 
And  the  snowflakes  in  her  hair. 

—  Eben  E.  Rexford. 

84 


MY  MOTHER 

QUCH  a  weak,  little,  tiny  body, 

^^  To  shelter  so  brave  a  heart, 

Such  morsels  of  hands  to  labor  so  long. 

And  bear  such  a  valiant  part 
In  the  battle  of  life,  such  diminutive  feet 

To  journey  so  far  and  so  fast 
On  the  road  which  leads  up  from  the  glimmer 
of  dawn 

To  the  glory  of  sunset  at  last. 


Yet  so  great  is  the  power  of  a  woman, 

If  only  her  will  is  strong. 
She  is  mighty  to  fight  and  conquer, 

(Though  the  struggle  be  dreary  and  long) 
With  the  armies  of  pain  and  sorrow, 

If  her  soul  be  but  pure  and  true. 
There  is  nothing  through  all  the  ages, 

She  has  not  been  able  to  do, 

—  The  Household. 


85 


MY  MOTHER'S  FAITH 

NEW  dogmas  and  new  doubts  replace 
The  creeds  our  young  lips  breathed, 
These,  heavy  with  their  inward  grace 

Those  light  with  graces  wreathed. 
These,  with  a  mother's  love  inwrought, 

Like  violets  pure  and  fair ; 
Those  with  fantastic  fancies  fraught 

Like  orchids  fed  on  air. 
Give  me  the  dear  old  blossoms  yet, 

The  lilac  and  the  pink; 
The  pansy  and  pale  mignonette, 

Whatever  others  think; 
No  greenhouse  gives  me  half  the  joy 

Some  old-time  garden  yields; 
And   love   I   still,   as  when   a  boy. 

The  wild  flowers  of  the  fields. 
And  mine  shall  be  the  faiths  of  old 

In  God,  and  Christ,  and  heaven; 
In  reason's  creeds  I  am  not  bold. 

But  fear  their  human  leaven; 
With  the  old  nosegays  in  my  hand. 

The  old  creeds  in  my  heart. 
Beside   the   cross   I'll   humbly  stand 

And  thence  from  earth  depart. 

—  William  C.  Richards. 
86 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SERMON 

T  TE  was  broken  that  day,  and  his  sobs  shook  the 
'*■   bed,   for  he  was  his  mother's  only  son  and 
fatherless,   and   his  mother,   brave   and   faithful   to 
the  last,  was  bidding  him  farewell. 

"  Dinna  greet  like  that,  John,  nor  break  yir  hert, 
for  it's  the  will  o'  God,  and  that's  aye  best. 

"  Ye  'ill  no  forget  me,  John,  I  ken  that  weel,  and 
I'll  never  forget  j'ou.  I've  loved  ye  here  and  I'll 
love  ye  yonder. 

"  Ye  'ill  follow  Christ,  and  gin  he  offers  ye  his 
cross  ye  'ill  no  refuse  it.  .  .  .  Ye  'ill  no  fail  me," 
and  her  poor  cold  hand  that  had  tended  him  all  his 
days  tightened  on  his  head. 

But  he  could  not  speak,  and  her  voice  was  fail- 
ing fast. 

"  I  canna  see  ye  noo,  John,  but  I  know  yir  there, 
an'  I've  just  one  other  wish.  If  God  calls  ye  to 
the  ministry,  ye  'ill  no  refuse,  an'  the  first  day  ye 
preach  in  yir  ain  kirk,  speak  a  gude  word  for  Jesus 
Christ,  an',  John,  I'll  hear  ye  that  day,  though  ye 
'ill  no  see  me,  and  I'll  be  satisfied." 

A  minute  after  she  whispered,  "  Pray  for  me," 
and  he  cried,  "  My  mother,  my  mother." 

It  was  a  full  prayer,  and  left  nothing  unasked  of 
Mary's  Son.  — Ian  Maclann. 

87 


FAITH  OF  OUR  MOTHERS 

T?AITH    of    our   mothers!    living   still 
-*-     In  all  that's  beautiful  and  brave; 
How  nobly  will  we  work  God's  will 

And  seek  from  sin  our  souls  to  save! 
Faith  of  our  mothers!  living  faith! 
We  will  be  true  to  thee  till  death! 

Faith  of  our  mothers!  living  still 

In  hearts  of  hope  and  songs  of  praise, 

We  gladly  join  with  one  accord, 
To  sing  to  God  our  sweetest  lays; 

Faith  of  our  mothers!  constant  faith! 

We  will  be  true  to  thee  till  death! 

Faith  of  our  mothers!  living  still 

In  love  and  life  that  ne'er  shall  die, 

And  children's  children   ever  dear 

Shall  hold  the  faith  that  brings  God  nigh ; 

Faith  of  our  mothers!  holy  faith! 

We  will  be  true  to  thee   till  death! 

—  S.   Trevena  Jackson. 


88 


BEFORE  IT  IS  TOO  LATE 

IF  you  have  a  gray-haired  mother 
In  the  old  home  far  away, 
Sit  down  and  write  the  letter 
You  put  off  day  by  day. 


If  you  have  a  tender  message, 

Or  a  loving  word  to  say, 
Don't  wait  till  you  forget  it, 

But  whisper  it  to-day. 
Who  knows  what  bitter  memories 

May  haunt  you  if  you  wait? 
So  make  your  loved  ones  happy 

Before  it  is  too  late. 

The   tender  words  unspoken, 

The  letter  never  sent, 
The  long-forgotten  messages. 

The  wealth  of  love  unspent, 
For   these   some   hearts   are   breaking, 

For   these  some  loved   ones  wait  — 
So  show  them  that  you  care  for  them 

Before  it  is  too  late. 

—  George  Bancroft  Griffith. 

89 


TRUST 

^  I  ''HE  same  old  baffling  questions !     O  my  friend, 

I  cannot  answer  them.     In  vain  I  send 
My  soul  into  the  dark  where  never  burn 
The  lamps  of  science,  nor  the  natural  light 
Of  reason's  sun  and  stars!     I  cannot  learn 
Their  great  and  solemn  meaning,  nor  discern 
The  awful  secrets  of  the  eyes  which  turn 
Evermore  on  us  through  day  and  night. 
With  silent  challenge,  and  a  dumb  demand 
Proffering  the   riddle  of   the   dead   unknown. 
Like  the  calm  Sphinxes,  with  their  eyes  of  stone, 
Questioning  the  centuries  from  the  vale  of  sand. 
I  have  no  answer  for  myself  or  thee 
Save  that  I  learned  beside  my  mother's  knees; 
"  All  is  of  God  and  is  to  be  ; 
And  God  is  good."     Let  this  suffice  us  still. 
Resting  in  childlike  trust  upon  his  will 
Who  moves  to  his  great  end  unthwarted  by  the  ill. 

—  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


90 


HER  WORDS  AND  PRAYERS 

QHE  led  me  first  to  God; 

*^  Her  words  and  prayers  were  my  young  spirit's 
dew  — 

For  when  she  us'd  to  leave 

The  fireside  every  eve, 
I  knew  it  was  for  prayer  that  she  withdrew. 

How  often  has  the  thought 

Of  my  mourn'd  mother  brought 
Peace  to  my  troubled  spirit,  and  new  power 

The  tempter  to  repel! 

Mother,  thou  knowest  well 
That  thou  hast  bless'd  me  since  my  natal  hour. 

—  John  Pierpont. 


"VXTOULD,  Mother,  thou  couldst  hear  me  tell 

'  *      How  oft,  amid  my  brief  career, 
For  sins  and  follies  loved  too  well, 

Hath  fallen  the  free,  repentant  tear. 
And,  in  the  waywardness  of  youth, 

How  better  thoughts  have  given  to  me 
Contempt  for  error,  love  for  truth, 
'Mid  sweet  remembrances  of  thee. 

—  James  J  Id  rich. 
91 


WHAT  IS  HOME  WITHOUT  A 
MOTHER? 

"IXT'HAT  is  home  without  a  mother? 
What  are  all  the  joys  we  meet? 
When  her  loving  smile  no  longer 
Greets  the  coming  of  our  feet? 

—  Alice  Hawthorne. 

'^'IX/HAT    is    home    without    a    mother?" — 

~  ^         there's  the  motto  on  the  wall, 
Hanging  in  a  place  obtrusive,  where  it  may  be  seen 

by  all; 
And  the  question's  never  answered :  we  can't  know 

what  home  would  be, 
If  its  gentle  guardian  angel  in  her  place  no  more 

we'd  see. 


What    is    home   without    a   mother?     That   we'll 

never  realize. 
Till  the  light  of  life  has  faded  from  the  kind  and 

patient  eyes; 
When  the  implements  of  labor  fall  unheeded  from 

her  hand. 
And  the  loving  voice  is  silent  —  then,  at  last,  we'll 

understand.  —  fValt  Mason. 

92 


MOTHER  AT  THE  GATE 

/^H,  there's  many  a  lonely  picture 
^^    On  memory's  silent  wall, 
There's  many  a  cherished  image 

That  I  tenderly  recall! 
The  sweet  home  of  my  childhood, 

With  its  singing  brooks  and  birds. 
The  friends  who  grew  around  me. 

With  their  loving  looks  and  words ; 
The  flowers  that  decked  the  wildwood, 

The  roses  fresh   and  sweet, 
The  blue-bells  and  the  daisies 

That  blossomed  at  my  feet  — 
All,  all  are  very  precious. 

And  often  come  to  me, 
Like  breezes  from  the  country 

That  shines  beyond  death's  sea. 
But  the  sweetest,   dearest   image 

That   fancy  can   create 
Is  the  image  of  my  mother 

My  mother  at  the  gate. 

—  Matilda  C.  Edwards. 


93 


THE  DESTINY  OF  THE  NATION 

'"T^HE  destiny  of  the  nation  lies  far  more  in  the 
•*■  hands  of  women  —  the  mothers  —  than  in  the 
hands  of  those  who  possess  power  or  those  who  are 
innovators,  who  seldom  understand  themselves. 
We  must  cultivate  women,  who  are  educators  of 
the  human  race,  else  a  new  generation  cannot  ac- 
complish its  task.  — Froebel. 

**  I  ''HE  woman's  task  is  not  easy  —  no  task  worth 
-■■  doing  is  easy  —  but  in  doing  it,  and  when  she 
has  done  it,  there  shall  come  to  her  the  highest  and 
holiest  joy  known  to  mankind;  and  having  done  it, 
she  shall  have  the  reward  prophesied  in  Scripture: 
for  her  husband  and  her  children,  yes  and  all  people 
who  realize  that  her  work  lies  at  the  very  founda- 
tion of  all  national  happiness  and  greatness,  shall 
rise  up  and  call  her  blessed. 

—  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

TFT  were  asked  to  name  one  principle  that  seemed 
■'■  to  have  an  almost  universal  application,  it  would 
be  this  one  —  show  me  the  mother  and  I  will  show 
you  the  man! 

—  Theodore  L.  Cuyler. 

94 


AMERICAN  MOTHERHOOD 

**  I  ''HERE  are  times  when  big  thoughts  burst, 
.-■■  meteor-like,  upon  the  modern  world.  One 
of  them  has  come  from  the  senate  of  the  United 
States,  where  there  is  a  bill  providing  for  a  Parthe- 
non, to  be  devoted  to  exploiting  the  achievements 
of  the  mothers  of  the  republic.  There  has  been  set 
aside  a  park  between  the  Capitol  and  the  new  union 
station  in  Washington  and  a  bill  has  been  intro- 
duced to  allot  a  portion  of  this  space  for  memorials 
to  the  motherhood  of  America  as  a  recognition  of 
the  part  she  had  in  making  America  what  it  is  to- 
day. Every  warrior  and  statesman  has  been  inspired 
to  deeds  of  valor  or  wisdom  by  a  woman,  a  patriotic 
or  far-seeing  wife  or  mother.  Women  have  liter- 
ally helped  to  fight  the  nation's  battles  and  they 
have  laid  upon  its  altar  sacrifices  as  heroic  as  those 
of  any  hero  at  the  head  of  conquering  armies  or  in 
the  serried  ranks;  and  there  is  not  a  statesman  or 
publicist  in  all  the  nation's  history  who  will  not 
gladly  acknowledge  his  obligation  to  womanhood 
for  keener  and  higher  visions  of  what  makes  for  a 
country's  noblest  good. 

—  Haverhill  Gazette. 


95 


THE  WORLD'S  QUEEN 

T  SHOULD  not  be  surprised  if,  in  the  ages  to 
■*■  come,  there  would  be  crowned  a  Queen  of 
the  World.  This  change  of  dominion  is  not  of  sex 
but  of  soul.  We  are  appreciating  tenderness,  pur- 
ity, kindness,  temperance,  and  other  womanly  gifts, 
as  we  never  did  before.  We  are  slowly  being  trans- 
formed by  the  accumulated  generations  of  mothers. 
How  the  world  moves  depends  on  how  the  women 
of  the  world  aspire.  And  how  women  work  reveals 
how  they  aspire.  A  woman,  to  succeed  in  this  work, 
must  have  her  heart  in  it.  And  this  lesson  we  all 
need  to  learn.  Labor  lacking  love  is  slow  suicide. 
Men,  if  underpaid,  as  a  body  refuse  to  work;  but 
do  you  suppose  any  sort  of  economic  pressure  could 
force  the  mothers  of  the  nation  to  go  on  a  strike? 

—  Edward  Earle  Purington. 

THE  mother  in  her  office  holds  the  key 
Of  the  soul ;  and  she  it  is  who  stamps  the  coin 
Of  character,  and  makes  the  being,  who  would  be  a 

savage 
But  for  her  gentle  cares,  a  Christian  man. 
Then  crown  her  Queen  of  the  World. 

—  Old  Play. 
96 


THE  REAL  QUEEN 

1%  yriGHTY   art   thou,   because  of   the   peaceful 

■^    -^       charms  of  thy  presence; 

That  which  the  silence  does  not,  never  the  boastful 

can  do. 
Many,  indeed,  have  ruled  through  the  might  of  the 

spirit  of  action, 
But  then,  thou  noblest  of  crowns,  they  were  deficient 

in   thee. 
No  real  queen  exists  but  the  womanly  beauty  of 

woman ; 
Where  it  appears,  it  must  rule;  ruling  because  it 

appears,  —  Schiller. 


"U  EVERED,  beloved  —  O  you  that  hold  a  nobler 
■'■^       office  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain  or  birth  could  give 
the  warrior's  kings  of  old. 


Her  court  was  pure ;  her  life  serene ;  God  gave  her 

peace ;  her  land   reposed ; 
A  thousand   claims  to   reverence  closed   in  her  as 
Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen. 

—  Alfred  Tennyson. 
97 


THE  END  OF  GLORY 

"/^   RATAPLAN!     It  is  a  merry  note, 

^^     And,  mother,  I'm  for  'listing  in  the  morn." 
"  And  would  ye,  son,  to  wear  a  scarlet  coat, 
Go  leave  your  mother's  latter  age  forlorn?  " 

"  O  mother,  I  am  sick  of  sheep  and  goat, 
Fat  cattle,  and  the  reaping  of  the  corn; 
I  long  to  see  the  British  colors  float; 
For  glory,  glory,  glory,  was  I  born !  " 

She  saw  him  march.     It  was  a  gallant  sight. 
She  blest  herself  and  praised  him  for  a  man. 
And  straight  he  hurried  to  the  bitter  fight, 
And  found  a  bullet  in  the  drear  Soudan. 

They  dug  a  shallow  grave — 'twas  all  they  might; 
And  that's  the  end  of  glory.     "  Rataplan !  " 

—  Edward  Cracoft  Lefroy. 


/^  WONDROUS  power!  how  little  understood, 
^^       —  entrusted  to  the  mother's  mind  alone. 
To  fashion  genius,  form  the  soul  for  good, 
inspire  a  West,  or  train  a  Washington! 

—  Sarah  J.  Hale. 
98 


THE  WAY  WITH  MOTHERS 

1\yT OTHERS  are  just  the  queerest  things! 
■^    '*■    'Member  when  John  went  away, 
All  but  mother  cried  and  cried 
When  they  said  good-by  that  day. 
She  just  talked  and  seemed  to  be 
Not  the  slightest  bit  upset  — 
Was  the  only  one  who  smiled! 
Others'  eyes  were  streaming  wet. 

But  when  John  came  back  again, 
On  a  furlough  safe  and  sound. 
With  a  medal  for  his  deeds, 
And  without  a  single  wound. 
While  the  rest  of  us  hurrahed. 
Laughed    and    joked    and    danced    about, 
Mother  kissed  him,  then  she  cried  — 
Cried  and  cried  like  all  git  out! 

—  Edwin  L.  Sabin. 


99 


"A  GLORIOUS  END" 
(Title  of  picture  by  English  war  artist) 

**  I  ''HE  soldier  tells  of  that  fierce  charge 

-*■      In  which  his  hero  brother  died: 
The  father  stands  with  lifted  head 

As  if  he  saw  the  splendid  ride, 
The  sister  hears  with  face  grown  pale 

And  eyes  that  brim  with  tears  of  pride; 
The  mother  does  not  heed  the  tale, — 

She  only  knows  that  he  has  died. 

She  makes  no  moan,  she  sheds  no  tears, 
She  feels  no  thrill  of  pride  or  joy, 

For,  looking  back  across  the  years, 
She  sees  a  little,  little  boy. 

Their  words  are  but  an  idle  tale 

Of  war  and  battle,  sword  and  gun; 
She  has  not  heard  that  he  was  brave. 

She  does  not  care  what  he  has  done; 
She  only  turns  her  head  aside. 

She  has  no  thought  for  glory  won 
She  only  knows  that  he  has  died, — 

Her  son  —  her  son  —  her  firstborn  son. 
—  Annie  Johnson  Flint. 
lOO 


THE  BRAVEST  BATTLE 

^  I  ^HE  bravest  battle  that  ever  vi^as  fought! 

-■-      Shall  I  tell  you  where  and  when? 
On   the  maps  of  the  world  you  will  find   it  not. 

'Twas  fought  by  the  mothers  of  men. 
Nay,  not  with  cannon  or  battle  shot, 

With  a  sword  or  noble  pen ; 
Nay,  not  with  eloquent  words  or  thought 

From  mouths  of  wonderful  men! 
Oh,  ye  with  banners  and  battle  shot, 

And  soldiers  to  shout  and  praise! 
I  tell  you  the  kingliest  victories  fought 

Were  fought  in  those  silent  ways. 
O  spotless  woman  in  a  world  of  shame, 

With  splendid  and  silent  scorn, 
Gro  back  to  God  as  white  as  you  came  — 

The  kingliest  warrior  born! 
But  deep  in  a  walled-up  woman's  heart  — 

Of  a  woman  that  would  not  yield, 
But  bravely,  silently  bore  her  part  — 

So,  there  is  that  battle-field ! 
No  marshaling  troops,  no  bivouac  song, 

No  banner  to  gleam  and  wave; 
But  oh!  these  battles,  they  last  so  long  — 

From  babyhood  to  the  grave. 

—  Joaquin  Miller. 
lOI 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SONG 

BENEATH  the  hot  midsummer  sun 
The  men  had  marched  all  day ; 
And  now  beside  a  rippling  stream,- 
Upon  the  grass  they  lay. 

Tiring  of  games  and  idle  jests, 

As  swept  the  hours  along, 
They  called  to  one  who  mused  apart, 

"  Come,  friend,  give  us  a  song." 

"  I  fear  I  cannot  please,"  he  said ; 

"  The  only  songs  I  know 
Are  those  my  mother  used  to  sing 

For  me  long  years  ago." 

"  Sing  one  of  those,"  a  rough  voice  cried, 
"There's  none  but  true  men  here; 

To  every  mother's  son  of  us, 
A  mother's  songs  are  dear." 

•  •••••• 

The  songs  are  done,  the  camp  is  still. 

Naught  but  the  stream  is  heard; 
But,  ah!  the  depths  of  every  soul 
By  those  old  hymns  are  stirred. 

—  Anon. 
102 


PEACE  AT  LAST 

■]\yrOTHER  darling!     I  am  dying,  life  is  ebbing 

•^    -*•     fast  away; 

Night  is  settling  down  upon  me  —  oh,  how  long 

has  been  the  day!  ... 
Oh,   how   often   in   the   trenches  mother's   prayers 

have  been  my  stay, 
Mother's  God  has  been  my  solace,  mother's  Christ 

has  lit  my  way !  — 

Kass  me,  mother,  I  am  dying,  you  will  miss  your 

soldier  boy, 
But  one  thought  w-ill  still  your  weeping  —  he  has 

passed  to  endless  joy  — 
Up  above  earth's  strife  and  battle,  where  no  war 

can  rage  and  tear. 
In  that  Home  away  in  Heaven,  Home  of  peace  so 

bright  so  fair. 


Sweetest  mother,  when  your  heart  aches,  feels  it  has 

too  much  to  bear, 
Try  to  see  your  boy  up  yonder,   waiting,  waiting 
for  you  there. 

—  Lucy  Booth  Hellburg. 
103 


THE  SPARTAN  MOTHERS 

/^OME  with  your  shield  or  on  it.     Thus  would 

^^        say 

The  Spartan  mothers  when  into  the  fray 
They  sent  their  sons  to  dare,  to  do,  or  die; 
And  from  maternal  lips  was  wrung  no  cry 
If  on  those  shields  their  sons  at  last  were  borne, 
With  pale,  still  faces,  for  why  should  they  mourn 
A  son  who  yet  as  worthy  hero  came 
Upon  his  shield  ?     Without  it  were  his  shame ! 

Dear,  noble  heart!     Bravely  you've  kept  the  shield 
Of  Christian  faith  on  earth's  great  battlefield! 
And  now,  spent,  pale,  and  silent,  you  are  borne 
Home    from    the    conflict.     But    why    should    we 

mourn? 
For  no  defeat  is  yours,  nor  yours  the  shame 
Of  faithless  sons  who  back  from  battle  came 
Without   their   shields.     Hail,    conqueror!    as   you 

come 
Upon  your  shield  to  your  eternal  home. 

—  A.  M.  Gordon. 


104 


THE  TWO  FATES 

nr^ HERE'S  a  thrill  to  the  tramp  of  the  fighting 
■■■  hosts 

Who  go  to  the  front  to  die, 
Though  none  may  say  from  day  to  day 

Wherever  their  bones  may  lie. 

But  the  mother  hears  through  her  unshed  tears 
Her  baby's  call  down  the  sweet  lost  years. 

There's  a  cheer  of  the  drum  for  the  shrinking  heart 

When  the  captain  swings  ahead, 
When  the  air  is  thick  with  the  click,  click,  click, 

Of  the  singing  storms  of  lead ; 

But  the  sad  wife  hears  through  her  throbbing  fears 
The  living  sobs  of  the  lonely  years. 

There's  a  glow  to  the  dare  of  a  noble  soul 

That  beckons  death  to  a  throw. 
With  a  life  for  a  stake  to  save  or  break, 

And  no  one  to  see  or  know. 

But  the  pale  maid  hears  when  the  war  cloud  clears 
The  voice  of  woe  and  the  word  that  sears. 

Brothers,  who  have  the  harder  fate  — 
The  men  who  fall  or  the  women  who  wait? 

—  The  British  IVeekly. 

105 


THE  MOTHER 

pALER,  and  yet  a  thousand  times  more  fair 
•*-     Than    in    thy    girlhood's    freshest    bloom,    art 

thou: 
A  softer  sun-flush  tints  thy  golden  hair, 

A  sweeter  grace  adorns  thy  gentle  brow. 
Lips  that  shall  call  thee  "  Mother!  "  at  thy  breast 

Feed  the  young  life,  wherein  thy  nature  feels 
Its  dear  fulfillment:  little  hands  are  pressed 

On  the  white  fountain  Love  alone  unseals. 

Look  down,  and  let  Life's  tender  daybreak  throw 

A  second   radiance  on  thy  ripened  hour: 
Retrace  thy  own  forgotten  advent  so. 

And  in  the  bud  behold  thy  perfect  flower. 
Nay,  question  not:  whatever  lies  beyond 

God  will  dispose.     Sit  thus.  Madonna  mine, 
For  thou  art  hallowed  with  a  love  as  fond 

As  Jewish  Mary  gave  the  Child  Divine. 

The  father  in  his  child  beholds  this  truth, 

His  perfect  manhood  has  assumed  its  reign: 
Thou  wear'st  anew  the  roses  of  thy  youth, — 
The  mother  in  her  child  is  born  again. 

—  Bayard  Taylor. 
1 06 


B 


THE  LOVE  OF  MOTHER 

UT  one  upon  earth  is  more  beautiful  and  better 
than  a  wife  —  that  is  the  mother. 

—  L.  Schefer. 


T7  RE  yet  her  child  hath  drawn  its  earliest  breath, 
-*-'  A  mother's  love  begins  —  it  grows  till  death ! 
Lives  before  life,  with  death,  not  dies,  but  seems 
The  very  substance  of  immortal  dreams. 

—  Anon. 

^Il  yTY  heart  grew  softer  as  I  gazed  upon 

^^ ^  That  youthful  mother,  as  she  soothed  to  rest, 

With  a  low  song,  her  lov'd  and  cherish'd  one. 

The  bud  of  promise  on  her  gentle  breast ; 
For  'tis  a  sight  that  angel  ones  above 

May  stoop  to  gaze  on  from  their  bowers  of  bliss. 
When  Innocence  upon  the  breast  of  Love 

Is  cradled,  in  a  sinful  world  like  this, 

—  A.B.  Welby. 

^  I  ''HERE  is  no  velvet  so  soft  as  a  mother's  lap, 
-■■  no  rose  so  lovely  as  her  smile,  no  path  so 
flowery  as  that  imprinted  with  her  footsteps. 

—  Archbishop   Thomson. 

107 


BABY 

"r\IMPLED  and  flushed  and  dewey  pink  he  lies, 
"*-^    Crumpled  and  tossed  and  lapt  in  snowy  bands ; 
Aimlessly  reaching  with  his  tiny  hands, 
Lifting  in  wondering  gaze  his  great  blue  eyes. 

Sweet  pouting  lips,  parted  by  breathing  sighs; 
Soft  cheeks,  warm  tinted  as  from  tropic  lands; 
Framed  with  brown  hair  in  shining  silken  strands, — 
All  fair,  all  pure,  a  sunbeam  from  the  skies ! 

O  perfect  innocence!  O  soul  enshrined 
In  blissful  ignorance  of  good  and  ill, 
By  never  gale  of  idle  passions  crossed ! 
Although  thou  art  no  alien  from  thy  kind, 
Though  pain  and  death  may  take  thee  captive,  still 
Through  sin,  at  least,  thine  Eden  is  not  lost. 

—  Elaine  Goodale. 


/^'ERWEENING  mother-love,  that  still  can  see 
^^^  In  furrowed  brow  and  bearded  lips,  the  trace 
Of  that  she  holds  most  dear  in  memory, 
Love's  dimpled  prototype, —  a  baby's  face. 

—  Marion  F.  Ham. 
io8 


ONLY  A  BABY  SMALL 

/^NLY  a  baby  small,  dropped  from  the  skies ; 
^^  Only  a  laughing  face,  t\\'o  sunny  eyes. 
Only  two  cherry  lips,   one  chubby  nose, 
Only  two  little  hands,  ten  little  toes. 

Only  a  tender  flower,  sent  us  to  rear, 
Only  a  life  to  love,  while  we  are  here. 
Only  a  baby  small,  never  at  rest, 
Small,  but  how  dear  to  us  God  knoweth  best. 

—  Mathias  Barr. 


\     MOTHER  heard  our  infant  cries, 
■^  ^     And  folded  us  with  fond  embrace, 
And  when  we  woke,  our  infant  eyes 
Were  opened  on  a  mother's  face. 

Her  wishes  she  did  make  her  own. 
Her  bosom  fed  and  pillowed  too, 

Answering  each  start  and  fitful  moan 
With  trembling  pulses  fond  and  true. 

—  Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


log 


TWO  MAGICAL  WORDS 

A  WIFE!  A  mother!  Two  magical  words, 
"*•  -^  comprising  the  sweetest  source  of  man's 
felicity.  Theirs  is  a  reign  of  beauty,  of  love,  of 
reason, —  always  a  reign.  — Jimi  Martin. 


^/"OUNG  mother,  your  motherhood  is  in  God's 
-*■  sight  a  holier  and  a  more  blessed  thing  than 
you  know.  Be  sure  that  all  the  tender  interest  and 
solemn  thoughts,  all  the  quiet  trust  and  joyful  hope 
which  expectant  motherhood  calls  forth  may  be 
sanctified  and  refined  by  God's  Holy  Spirit,  and 
you  may  be  united  under  the  overshadowing  of  His 
heavenly  grace.  — Andrew  Murray. 


T  X  7"HEN  Eve  was  brought  unto  Adam,  he  became 
*  '  filled  with  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  gave  her  the 
most  sanctified,  the  most  glorious  of  appellations. 
He  called  her  Eva  —  that  is  to  say,  the  Mother  of 
All.  He  did  not  style  her  wife,  but  simply  mother 
—  mother  of  all  living  creatures.  In  this  consists 
the  glory  and  the  most  precious  ornament  of  woman. 

—  Luther. 
no 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD 

1\ /TY  little  dear,  so  fast  asleep 
"^    -*-   Whose  arms  about  me  cling, 
What  kisses  shall  she  have  to  keep, 
While  she  is  slumbering! 

Upon  her  golden  baby-hair 

The  golden  dreams  I'll  kiss 
Which  Life  spread,  through  my  morning  fair, 

And  I  have  saved,  for  this. 

Upon  her  baby  eyes  I'll  press 

The  kiss  Love  gave  to  me, 
When  this  great  joy  and  loveliness 

Made  all  things  fair  to  see. 

And  on  her  lips,  with  smiles  astir, 

Ah  me,  what  prayer  of  old 
May  now  be  kissed  to  comfort  her, 

Should  Love  or  Life  grow  cold? 

—  Dolly  Radford. 

**  I  ''HE  mother  smooths  her  baby's  pillow 
-*•      Of  lace  and  lawn  and  softest  down ; 
Oh,  so  she'd  smooth  our  life's  least  billow, 
All  its  mountains,  and  every  frown! 

—  /.  M.  Webster. 
Ill 


MOTHERHOOD 

THERE  is  a  sight  all  hearts  beguiling  — 
A  youthful  mother  to  an  infant  smiling, 
Who,  with  spread  arms  and  dancing  feet. 
And  cooing  voice,  returns  its  answer  sweet. 

—  Joanna  Baillie. 

THE  tie  which  links  mother  and  child  is  of  pure 
and  immaculate  strength.  Holy,  simple,  and 
beautiful,  it  is  an  emblem  of  all  we  can  imagine  of 
fidelity  and  truth.  —  Washington  Irving. 

^  I  ''HE  purest  thing  I  know  in  all  earth's  hold- 
-■■  ing 

Is  mother  love,  her  precious  child  enfolding; 
Yet  when  the  mother's  footstep  feeble  groweth, 
As   sweet    the   child    love   then   which    round    her 
floweth.  —  Anon. 

ipERHAPS   there  are  tenderer,   sweeter   things 
■*-     Somewhere  in  this  sunlight  land. 
But  I  thank  the  Lord  for  His  blessings, 
And  the  clasp  of  a  little  hand. 

—  Frank  L.  Stanton. 
113 


ALL  MOTHER 


TF   I   had   an   eagle's  wings,   how  grand   to  sail 
^       the  sky! 

But  I  should  drop  to  earth  if  I  heard  my  baby  cry. 
My  baby  —  my  darling,  the  wings  may  go,  for  me. 


If  I  was  a  splendid  queen,  with  a  crown  to  keep  in 

place, 
Would  it  do  for  a  little  wet  mouth  to  rub  all  over 

my  face? 
My  baby  —  my  darling,  the  crown  may  go  for  me. 

—  Eliza  S.   Turner. 


JUST  a  little  baby  lying  in  my  arms, 
Would  that  I  could  keep  you  with  your  baby 
charms ; 
Helpless,   clinging  fingers;   downy,   golden   hair, 
When    the   sunshine    lingers,    caught    from    other- 
where ; 
Roly-poly  shoulders,  dimple  in  your  cheek; 
Dainty  little  blossom,  in  a  world  of  woe; 
Thus  I  fain  would  keep  you,  for  I  love  you  so. 

—  Louise  C.  Moulton. 


"3 


THE  QUEENLIEST  WOMAN 

^  I  '*HE    queenliest   woman,    bravest,    best   of    all 

-■■  sweet  things  beneath  the  sun? 

I   say   the  queenliest   is  that  one  —  seek  north  or 

south  or  east  or  west  — 
Who  loves   to   fold   the  little  frock  and  hear  the 

cradle  rock  and  rock. 

I  say  the  purest  woman,   best  beneath  our  forty 

stars  is  she 
Who  loves  her  spouse  most  ardently  and  rocks  the 

cradle  oftenest  — 
Wlio  rocks  and  sings,  and  rocks,  and  then  when 

birds  are  nestling,  rocks  again. 

—  Joaquin  Miller. 

**  I  '"EN  little  heads  have  found  their  sweetest  rest 

-*-      Upon  the  pillow  of  her  loving  breast ; 
The  world  is  wide ;  yet  nowhere  does  it  keep 

So  safe  a  haven,  so  secure  a  rest. 
'Tis  counted  something  great  to  be  a  queen, 

And  bend  a  kingdom  to  a  woman's  will. 
To  be  a  mother  such  as  mine,  I  ween, 
Is  something  better  and  more  noble  still. 

—  May  Riley  Smith. 
114 


ROCKABY  BABY 

T>  OCKABY  baby  —  Somebody  sings  — 

-■-^  Rockaby  baby,  my  baby. 

Dreams  in  his  bundle  the  SLeepman  brings; 

You  shall  have  some  of  them,  maybe; 
You  shall  have  dreams,  if  you  close  your  wee  eyes, 
Of  wonderful  things  under  far-away  skies 
Where  little  ones  go  when  they  sleep,  I  surmise  — 
Rockaby  baby,  my  baby. 

Rockaby  baby.     Soon  you  shall  be  — 

Rockaby  baby,  my  dearie  — 
Safely  afloat  on  the  crystalline  sea 

That  kisses  the  Slumberland  cheery; 
And  all  little  bairnies  my  baby  shall  greet 
In  valleys  of  beauty,  with  wonders  replete, 
Where  their  toes  are  the  things  that  the  babies  all 
eat  — 

Rockaby  baby,  my  dearie. 

—  Alfred  J.    fVaterhouse. 


115 


CRADLE  SONG 

**  I  '•HE  winds  are  whispering  over  the  sea, 

-■■      And  the  waves  are  listening  smilingly, — 
They  are  telling  tales  of  the  shining  sky, 
And  the  dusky  lands  they  travel  by. 
They  are  telling  tales  they  have  often  told  — 
Of  faces  new  and  feelings  old, 
Of  hope  and  fear,  and  love  and  hate, 
Of  birth  and  death  and  human  fate, 
Of  homes  of  joy  and  hearts  of  pain. 
Of  storm  and  strife,  and  peace  again, 
Of  age  and  youth,  of  man  and  maid, 
And  of  baby  mine  in  a  cradle  laid. 

And  the  sun  laughs  down  in  his  own  kind  way. 
For  the  heart  of  the  sun  is  as  young  as  they; 
And  the  sea  looks  up  as  a  loved  one  should, — 
They  are  old ;  they  know  it  is  good,  all  good. 
You  may  feel  the  waves  as  the  cradle  swings. 
And  the  air  is  stirred  with  the  wind's  soft  wings, 
And  mother  has  heard  from  the  sky  and  the  sea 
That  they  send  "  sweet  sleep  and  dreams  "  to  thee. 
Then  hush!  my  baby,  gently  rest 
In  the  night's  wide  arms,  on  the  earth's  broad  breast. 
The  sky  above,  beneath,  the  sea, 
And  a  greater  than  all  to  shelter  thee. 

—  Merle  Si.  Croix  Wright. 
Ii6 


ROCKING  THE  BABY  TO  SLEEP 

T3  ACK  and  forth  in  a  rocker,  lost  in  memory  deep, 
•■-'  The  mother  rocked  while  trying  to  sing  the 

baby  to  sleep. 
The  baby  began  a  crowing,  for  silent  he  couldn't 

keep  — 
And  after  a  while  the  baby  had  crowed  his  mother 
to  sleep. 

—  Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick, 


T  SEE  the  sleeping  babe,  nestling  the  breast  of  its 
■*■         mother ; 

The  sleeping  mother  and  babe  —  hushed,   I  study 
them  long  and  long. 

—  Walt  Whitman. 


T    ONG,  long  before  the  babe  could  speak, 
"*— '  When  he  would  kiss  his  mother's  cheek 

And   to   her  bosom   press, 
The  brightest  angels,   standing  near, 
Would  turn  away  to  hide  a  tear, 
For  they  are  motherless. 

—  J.  W.  Tabb. 
117 


BEAUTIFUL  CHILD 

OEAUTIFUL  child,  to  thy  look  is  given 

"^  A  gleam  serene. —  not  of  earth,  but  of  heaven ; 

With  thy  tell-tale  eyes  and  prattling  tongue, 

Would  thou  couldst  ever  thus  be  young. 

Like  liquid  strain  of  the  mocking  bird. 

From  stair  to  hall  thy  voice  is  heard; 

How   oft   in   the  garden  nooks   thou'rt   found, 

With  flowers  thy  curly  head  around! 

And  kneeling  beside  me  with  figure  quaint, 

Oh,  who  would  not  dote  on  my  infant  saint? 


Beautiful  child,  may'st  thou  soar  above, 

A  warbling  cherub  of  joy  and  love; 

A  drop  on  eternity's  nightly  sea, 

A  blossom  of  life's  immortal  tree; 

Floating,   flowering  forevermore, 

In  the  blessed  light  of  the  golden  shore. 

And  as  I  gaze  on  thy  sinless  bloom 

And  thy  radiant  face,  they  dispel  my  gloom; 

r  feel  He  will  keep  thee  undefiled. 

And  His  love  protect  my  beautiful  child. 

—  W.  A.  H.  Sigourney. 


Il8 


THE  BABIE 

"^TAE  shoon  to  hide  her  tiny  taes, 
■^  ^    Nae  stockin'  on  her  feet ; 
Her  supple  ankles  white  as  snaw, 
Or  early  blossoms  sweet. 

Her  simple  dress  o'  sprinkled  pink, 
Her  double  dim,  dimplit  chin, 

Her  puckered  lips  and  baumy  mou' 
Wi'  na  ane  tooth  within. 

Her  een  sae  like  her  mither's  een, 

Twa  gentle,   liquid   things; 
Her  face  is  like  an  angel's  face: 

We're  glad  she  has  nae  wings. 

She  is  the  buddin'  o'  our  luve, 

A  giftie  God  gied  us: 
We  maun  na  luve  the  gift  ouer  weel; 

'Twad  be  nae  blessin'  thus. 

We  still  maun  lo'e  the  Giver  mair, 

An'  see  Him  in  the  given ; 
An'  sae  she'll  lead  us  up  to  Him, 
Our  baby  straight  frae  heaven. 

—  J.  E.  Rankin. 
119 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE 

(Typical  of  God's  love") 

T    IKE  a  cradle,  rocking,  rocking, —  silent,  peace- 

^~^       ful,  to  and  fro; 

Like  a  mother's  sweet  looks  dropping  on  the  little 

face  below, — 
Hangs  the  green  earth  swinging,  turning,  jarless, 

noiseless,  safe  and  slow; 
Falls  the  light  of  God's  face,  bending  down  and 

watching  us  below. 

And  as  feeble  babes  that  suffer,  toss  and  cry  and  will 

not  rest, 
Are  the  ones  the  tender  mother  holds  the  closest, — 

loves  the  best; 
So  when  we  are  weak  and  wretched,  by  our  sins 

weighed  down,  distressed. 
Then  it  is  God's  greatest  patience  holds  us  closest, 

loves  us  best.  — Saxe  Holm. 


I20 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER 

FATHER,  I  thank  thee  — 
First,  because  Thou  has  made  me  a  mother, 
and  of  all  women  the  mother  is  most  blessed. 

Second,  because  Thou  has  helped  me  to  be  a  true 
mother,  by  giving  me  understanding  that  I  may 
teach  my  children. 

Be  with  me  in  my  daily  tasks;  shed  Thy  bright 
radiance  about  my  home  that  the  young  hearts 
growing  here  may  be  nourished  with  the  living 
waters. 

Guard  them  against  evil,  O  Father,  and  keep 
them  fresh  in  faith  and  trust.  Keep  them  pure  of 
thought  and  deed.  Bless  them  with  love,  and  with 
that  strong  belief  in  Thee  which  exalts  the  heart 
and  sweetens  the  life. 

Strengthen  them.  Lord,  with  knowledge,  and 
teach  them  to  honor  the  duties  Thou  seest  fit  to 
impose  upon  them.  Give  them  richness  of  spirit, 
and  the  eternal  joy  which  earthly  shadows  but 
deepen.  Guide  them  ever,  O  Father,  and  grant 
that  they  be  well  pleasing  unto  Thee. 

In  the  name  of  Thine  own  Son,  Jesus,  I  ask  it. 
Amen. 

—  Beatrice  E.  Harmon. 

121 


y 


CRADLE  SONG 

O  LEEP,  baby  sleep ! 
'^  Thy  father's  watching  the  sheep, 
Thy  mother's  shaking  the  dreamland  tree, 
And  down  drops  a  little  dream  for  thee, 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 
The  large  stars  are  the  sheep, 
The  little  stars  are  the  lambs,  I  guess, 
The  bright  moon  is  the  shepherdess, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 
The  Saviour  loves  His  sheep; 
He  is  the  Lamb  of  God  on  high 
Who  for  our  sakes  came  down  to  die. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

—  Elizabeth  Prentiss. 

/'^  OLDEN  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes 
^^    Smiles  awake  you  when  you  rise. 
Sleep,   pretty  wantons;  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby. 
Rock  them,   rock  them,   lullaby. 

—  Thomas  Decker. 
122 


THE  RHYME  OF  ONE 

"\70U  sleep  upon  your  mother's  breast,  your  race 

■*■         begun, 
A  welcome,  long  a  wi'sh'd  for  Guest,  whose  age  is 

One. 
A  Baby-Boy,  you  wonder  why  you  cannot  run; 
You  try  to  talk  —  how  hard  you  try !     You're  only 

One.  .  .  . 
Some  day,  too,  you  may  have  your  joy,  and  envy 

none; 
Yes,  you  yourself  may  own  a  boy  who  isn't  One. 
He'll  dance  and  laugh  and  crow;  he'll  do  as  you 

have  done 
(You'll  crown  a  happy  home,  though  you  are  only 

One). 
But  when  he's  grown  shall  you  be  here  to  share 

his  fun, 
And  talk  of  times  when  he  (the  Dear!)  was  hardly 

One? 
Dear  Child,  'tis  your  poor  lot  to  be  my  little  Son; 
I'm  glad„  though  I  am  old,  you  see, —  while  you 

are  One. 

—  Frederic  Locker. 


123 


BABY'S  SKIES 

VIJOULD  you  know  the  baby's  skies? 

Baby's  skies  are  mother's  eyes. 
Mother's  eyes  and  smiles   together 
Make  the  baby's  pleasant  weather. 
Mother,  keep  your  eyes  from  tears, 
Keep  your  heart  from  foolish  fears; 
Keep  your  lips  from  dull  complaining. 
Lest  the  baby  think  'tis  raining. 

—  Mary  C.  BartletU 

IV/fY  child  is  lying  on  my  knee, 

The  signs  of  heaven  she  reads  ; 
My  face  is  all  the  heaven  she  sees, 

Is  all  the  heaven  she  needs. 
And  she  is  well,  yea,  bathed  in  bliss, 

If  heaven  is  in  my  face; 
Behind  it  all  is  tenderness 

And  truthfulness  and  grace. 



Lo!  Lord  I  sit  in  thy  wide  space. 

My  child  upon  my  knee; 
She  looketh  up  into  my  face 

And  I  look  up  to  Thee. 

—  George  MacDonald. 
124 


MOTHER'S  WORLD 

Tj'  YES  of  blue  and  hair  of  gold 
■*--'  Cheeks  all  brown  with  summer  tan, 
Lips  that  much  of  laughter  hold, 
This  is  mother's  little  Man. 

Shining  curls  like  chestnut  brown, 
Long-lashed  eyes,  demure  and  staid, 

Sweetest  face  in  all  the  town, 
This  is  mother's  little  Maid. 

Dainty  room  with  snow-white  bed. 
Where  two  flowers  with  petals  curled. 

Rest  in  peace  two  dreaming  heads, 
That  is  mother's  little  World. 

—  Margaret  Alden. 


"jl/TY  world  may  be  small,  but  'tis  happy 

And  peaceful,  far  from  the  mad  whirl, 
And  the  day's  toil  is  lost  and  forgotten 
In  the  kiss  of  my  wee  baby  girl. 

—  Louise  M alloy. 


125 


MOTHER'S  KISSES 

\     KISS  when  I  wake  in  the  morning 
"*■  ^     A  kiss  when  I  go  to  bed, 
A  kiss  when  I  burn  my  fingers, 

A  kiss  when  I  bump  my  head. 
A  kiss  when  I  give  her  trouble, 

A  kiss  when  I  give  her  joy: 
There's  nothing  like  mamma's  kisses 

To  her  own   little  baby  boy.    — Anon. 

**  I  ^HEY'RE  good  for  bumps,  and  good  for  lumps, 

■*■      They're  even  good  for  dumps  and  grumps. 
They're  good  for  stings  of  "  bumbly-bees  " 

And  barks  from   "  shinnying "  cherry-trees. 
For  splinters,  sun-burn,  "  skeeter-bites," 
For  "  injured  feelings  "  after  fights, 
And  scratches,  scratched  while  Tabby  hisses  — 

Mother's  kisses. 
There's  naught  so  pure,  there's  naught  so  sure, 

Indeed,  they  seem  a  heavenly  cure. 
For  pounded  fingers,  stubbied  toes, 

And  all  the  long,  long  list  of  woes, 
Yet  did  you  ever  think  it  queer 

That  while  they're  fine  for  every  fear 
They're  just  as  fine  with  all  the  blisses  — 
Mother's  kisses. 

—  Annie   Balcomb   Wheeler. 
126 


NOBODY  KNOWS  BUT  MOTHER 

HOW  many  buttons  are  missing  to-day  ? 
How  many  playthings  are  strewn  in  her  way? 
Nobody  knows  but  mother. 
How  many  thimbles  and  spools  has  she  missed? 
How  many  burns  on  each  little  fist? 
How  many  bumps  to  be  cuddled  and  kissed? 
Nobody  knows  but  mother. 

How  many  stockings  to  -dam,  do  you  know? 
How  many  muddy  shoes  all  in  a  row? 

Nobody  knows  but  mother. 
How  many  little  torn  aprons  to  mend? 
How  many  hours  of  toil  must  she  spend? 
What  is  the  time  when  her  day's  work  shall  end? 

Nobody  knows  but  mother. 

How  many  cares  does  a  mother-heart  know? 
How  many  joys  from  her  mother-love  flow. 

Nobody  knows  but  mother. 
How  many  prayers  by  each  little  white  bed? 
How  many  tears  for  her  babe  has  she  shed? 
How  many  kisses  for  each  curly  head? 
Nobody  knows  but  mother. 

—  Haverhill  Record. 
127 


CRADLE  SONG 

WHAT  does  little  birdie  say  in  her  nest  at  peep 
of  day? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie,  mother,  let  me  fly  away. 

Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer,  till  the  little  wings  are 

stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer,  then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say,  in  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie,  let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 

Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer  till  the  little  limbs  are 

stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer,  baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

—  Alfred  Tennyson. 


128 


A  LULLABY 

HUSH,  my  babe,  in  all  the  westland. 
Angel  hands  have  veiled  the  skies ; 
Hark,  my  babe,  from  out  the  restland 
Voices  bid  thee  close  thine  eyes. 

Let  the  night  winds  not  alarm  thee, 
Stars  are  watching  thee  above; 

Whispering  shadows  shall  not  harm  thee  — 
Round  thee  guards  a  mother's  love. 

Dreamland  calls  thee,  go  and  wander 
Through  her  pathways  wild  and  free; 

By  the  jewelled  doorway  yonder 
Mother's  heart  will  wait  for  thee. 

On  the  hills  when  morn  is  breaking, 

And  shadows  lift  from  laughing  streams. 

Mother's  joy  will  clasp  thee  waking, 
Within  the  pearl-mist  of  thy  dreams. 

—  Fred  Clare  Baldwin. 


129 


MOTHERHOOD 

"]\  TOT  HER,  crooning  soft  and  low,  let  not  all 

■^^-^       thy  fancies  go, 

Like  swift  birds,  to  the  blue  skies  of  thy  darling's 

happy  eyes. 
Count  thy  baby's  curls  for  beads,  as  a  sweet  saint 

intercedes ; 
But  on  some  fair  ringlet's  gold  let  a  tender  prayer 

be  told 
For  the  mother,  all  alone,  who  for  singing  maketh 

moan. 
Who  doth  ever  vainly  seek  dimpled  arms  and  velvet 

cheek. 

—  Mary  Frances  Butts 


liyriGHTY  is  the  force  of  motherhood!  It 
'^'-'-  transforms  all  things  by  its  vital  heat;  it 
turns  timidity  into  fierce  courage,  and  dreadless 
defiance  into  tremulous  submission ;  it  turns  thought- 
lessness into  foresight,  and  yet  stills  all  anxiety  into 
calm  content ;  it  makes  selfishness  become  self-denial, 
and  gives  even  a  hard  vanity  the  glance  of  admiring 
love. 

—  George  Eliot. 
130 


THE  HAND  THAT  ROCKS  THE  CRADLE 

^nr^HEY  say  that  man  is  mighty,  he  governs  land 

■*■  and  sea, 

He  wields  a  mighty  scepter  o'er  lesser  powers  that 

be; 
But  a  mightier  power  and  stronger  man  from  his 

throne  has  hurled. 
For  the  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle  is  the  hand  that 
rules  the  world. 

—  William  Ross   Wallace. 


"^TEVER  in  the  history  of  the  human  race  was 
■^  ^  the  "  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle  "  held  in 
higher  respect  than  to-day.  Never  was  motherhood 
more  honored  or  more  honorable. 

A  careful  study  of  great  men's  lives  will  reveal 
that  much  of  their  force  of  character  they  owe  to 
their  mother. 

What  is  known  of  Lincoln's  mother  is  so  meager 
that  it  makes  a  bare-looking  picture,  but  enough  is 
known  to  make  it  certain  that  she  gave  to  the  world 
one  of  the  noblest  of  men,  and  that  he  was  noble 
largely  because  of  the  influence  of  his  mother. 

—  P.  H.  Murdick. 
131 


THE  DEAREST  BABY 

'^ORTH  and  South,  East  and  West, 
-^  ^    Where  is  the  baby  that  I  love  best? 
A  little  papoose  under  the  trees? 
A  Chinese  beauty  beyond  the  seas? 
An  English  child  among  the  mills? 
A  Switzer  baby  between  the  hills? 

A  dark-eyed  darling  in  Southern  vales? 
An  iceland  baby  in  Northern  gales? 
What  nonsense  talk  to  speak  of  these! 
The  dearest  baby  is  on  my  knees! 

—  Mary  Frances  Butts. 


**  I  '^HE  world  has  no  flower  in  any  land, 
■■■      And  no  such  pearl  in  any  gulf  or  sea, 
As  any  babe  on  any  mother's  knee. 

—  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


A 


MOTHER  is  a  mother  still  — 
The  holiest  thing  alive. 

—  Coleridge. 
132 


SWEET  AND  LOW 

OWEET  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 
'^  Wind   of   the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go. 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon; 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 

—  Alfred  Tennyson. 


133 


THE  QUEEN  OF  BABY-LAND 

TTOW  many  miles  to  Baby-land? 
Any  one  can  tell ;  up  one  flight, 
To  the  right  — 

Please  to  ring  the  bell. 

What  can  you  see  in  Babj^-land? 
Little  folks  in  white,  downy  heads, 
Cradle  beds, 

Faces  pure  and  bright. 

What  do  they  do  in  Baby-land? 
Dream  and  wake  and  play. 
Laugh  and  crow,  shout  and  grow; 
Jolly  times  have  they. 

What  do  they  say  in  Baby-land? 

Why,  the  oddest  things;  might  as  well 
Try  to  tell 

What  a  birdie  sings. 

Who  is  queen  of  Baby-land? 

Mother,  kind  and  sweet;  and  her  love. 
Born  above. 

Guides  the  little  feet. 

—  George  Cooper. 
134 


BEST 

MOTHER,  I  see  you  with  your  nursery  light, 
Leading  your  babies,  all  in  white. 
To  their  sweet  rest; 
Christ,  the  Good  Shepherd,  carries  mine  to-night, 
And  that  is  best. 

I  cannot  help  tears,  when  I  see  them  twine 

Their  fingers  in  yours,  and  their  bright  curls  shine 

On  your  warm  breast; 
But  the  Saviour's  is  purer  than  yours  or  mine  — 

He  can  love  best. 

You  tremble  each  hour  because  your  arms 
Are  weak;  your  heart  is  wrung  with  alarms, 

And  sore  opprest; 
My  darlings  are  safe,  out  of  reach  of  harms. 

And  that  is  best 


But  grief  is  selfish;  I  cannot  see. 
Always,  why  I  should  so  stricken  be. 

More  than  the  rest; 
But  I  know  that,  as  well  as  for  them,  for  me, 

God  did  the  best. 

—  Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 

135 


TIRED  MOTHERS 

A     LITTLE  tired  elbow  leans  upon  your  knee,- 
-*■  •*-     Your  tired  knee  that  has  so  much  to  bear ; 
A   child's   dear  eyes   are  looking  lovingly 

From  underneath  a  thatch  of  tangled  hair. 
Perhaps  you  do  not  heed  the  velvet  touch 

Of  warm,  moist  fingers  holding  you  so  tight; 
You   do  not  prize   the  blessing  overmuch, — 

You  almost  are  too  tired  to  pray  to-night. 

But  it  is  blessedness!     A  year  ago 

I  did  not  see  it  as  I  do  to-day  — 
We  are  all  so  dull  and  thankless,  and  too  slow 

To  catch  the  sunshine  as  it  slips  away. 
And  now  it  seems  surpassing  strange  to  me 

That  while  I  wore  the  badge  of  motherhood, 
I  did  not  kiss  more  oft  and  tenderly 

The  little  child  that  brought  me  only  good. 


136 


CHILD  AND  MOTHER 

r\  MOTHER-MY-LOVE,    if   you'll   give   me 
^-^         your  hand 

And  go  where  I  ask  you  to  wander, 
I  will  lead  you  away  to  a  beautiful  land  — 

The  dreamland  that's  waiting  out  yonder. 
We'll  walk  in  the  sweetest  posie  gardens  out  there, 

Where  moonlight  and  starlight  are  streaming. 
And  the  flowers  and  the  birds  are  filling  the  air 

With  the  fragrance  and  music  of  dreaming. 

There'll  be  no  little,  tired-out  boy  to  undress, 

No  questions  or  cares  to  perplex  you; 
There'll  be  no  little  bruises  or  bumps  to  caress. 

Nor  patchings  of  stockings  to  vex  you. 
For  I'll  rock  you  away  on  the  silver-dew  stream 

And  sing  you  asleep  when  you're  weary, 
And  no  one  shall  know  of  our  beautiful  dream, 

But  you  and  your  own  little  dearie. 

•  •••••• 

So,  Mother-my-Love,  let  me  take  your  dear  hand 
And  away  through  the  starlight  we'll  wander  — 

Away  through  the  mist  to  that  beautiful  land  — 
The  dreamland  that's  waiting  out  yonder. 

—  Eugene  Field. 

137 


THE  REFUGE 

"jl/TY  faith  grew  weak  in  sorrow's  night, 
-*■-*■   So  long  delayed  the  morning  light ! 
The  bitterness,  the  mystery 
Of  pain  and  loss  that  came  to  me, 
Against  my  soul  hard  onslaught  made, 
I  trembled  —  I  was  sore  afraid. 

And  then  I  saw  a  sweet,  strange  thing 
That  filled  my  soul  with  wondering: 
The  clouds  hung  black,  the  lightning  flashed 
In  deadly  fire,  the  thunder  crashed  — 
And  through  it  all  a  little  child 
Lay  in  its  mother's  arms  and  smiled ! 

Ah,  sweet  for  me  the  lesson  learned, 
To  God's  strong  refuge  then  I  turned. 
Securely  held  from  life's  alarms 
I  rested  in  my  Father's  arms, 
And  in  that  sure  abiding-place 
I  smiled  into  His  loving  face. 

—  Faith  Wells. 


138 


A  MOTHER'S  PRAYER 

OO  many  cares  to  burden  all  the  day, 

^^   So  many  wounds  to  bind,  and  hurts  to  heal, 

So  many  steps  to  guide  along  the  way, 

So  much  for  hands  to  do  and  hearts  to  feel. 
Thou  knowest.  Lord,  how  weary  mothers  grow; 
How  at  the  close  of  day,  we  come  with  lagging 
feet 
And  ofttimes  aching  head,  to  ask  Thy  help 
Just  to  keep  sweet. 

The  cup  of  little  things,  things  that  worry  so, 

Comes  often  to  a  mother's  lips  to  drink. 
The  griefs  and  joys  that  only  mothers  know 

Make  up  her  chain  of  days,  forged  link  by  link. 
Dear  Lord,  a  mother  draws  her  strength  from  Thee, 

Her  wisdom,  too,  to  guide  the  childish  feet; 
But  always,  Lord,  our  daily  need  will  be 
Just  to  keep  sweet. 

—  Helen  P.  Metzger. 


139 


MY  DROWSY  LITTLE  QUEEN 

"jl  /TY  little  girl  is  nested  within  her  tiny  bed, 
J-T  A  With  amber  ringlets  crested  around  her  dainty 

head; 
She  lies  so  calm  and  stilly,  she  breathes  so  soft  and 

low, 
She  calls  to  mind  a  lily  half  hidden  in  the  snow. 

I  kiss  your  wayward  tresses,  my  drowsy  little  queen; 

I    know    you    have    caresses    from    floating    forms 

unseen ; 

O  angels !  let  me  keep  her  to  kiss  away  my  cares, 

This  darling  little  sleeper  who  has  my  love  and 

prayers.  „  ,  ,^.  „     , 

—  oamuel  Minturn  feck. 


"IX /TOTHER,  what  are  those  little  things  that 

^^ ^       twinkle  from  the  sky?" 
"  The  stars,  my  child." — "  I  thought,  mother,  they 

were  the  angels'  eyes. 
And  always  when  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  said  my  little 

prayers, 
I  felt  so  safe,  because  I  knew  that  they  had  opened 

—  Kjeorge  IV.  Doane. 
140 


SLEEP,  LITTLE  BABY  OF  MINE 

SLEEP,  little  baby  of  mine. 
Night  and  the  darkness  are  near, 
Jesus  looks  down  through  the  shadows  that  frown. 
And  baby  has  nothing  to  fear; 
Shut  little  sleepy  blue  eyes. 
Dear  little  head  be  at  rest; 
Jesus  like  you,  was  a  baby  once  too. 
And  slept  on  His  own  mother's  breast, 
Lullaby,  Lullaby, 
Sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 

Sleep  little  baby  of  mine. 
Soft  on  your  pillow  of  white; 
Jesus  is  here  to  watch  over  you,  dear, 
And  nothing  can  harm  you  to-night; 
Oh,  little  darling  of  mine, 
What  can  you  know  of  the  bliss. 
The  comfort  I  keep,  awake  or  asleep, 
Because  I  am  certain  of  this. 

Lullaby,  Lullaby 
Sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 


—  An 


on. 


HI 


A  BABY  LOST 

''  I  ''HE  baby's  skirts  and  kilts  are  gone, 

-*-      The  dresses  laid  away, 
For  little  Bob  has  trousers  on  — 
He's  five  }'ears  old  to-day! 

And  mother  smiles  —  as  mothers  will  — 

Each  smile  a  fond  caress, 
But  something  blurs  her  yearning  eyes 

With  misty  tenderness! 

For  well  she  knows  the  years  are  fleet  — 
That  but  a  trifling  span, 
And  Time,  who  stole  her  baby's  lisp, 
Will  make  her  boy  a  man. 

And  well  she  knows  the  rugged  path 

That  waits  the  youthful  feet, 
The  tortuous  trail  'neath  winter's  wrath 

And  summer's  scorching  heat. 

And  though  she  smiles  —  as  mothers  will  — 

When  little  Bob  can  see, 
Her  heart  cries  out  "A  baby  lost! 
God  bring  him  back  to  me !  " 

—  Hilton  R.  Greer. 
142 


MATER  DOLOROSA 

"DECAUSE  of  one  dear  infant  head 
■*-^  With  golden  hair, 
To  me  all  little  heads 

A  halo  wear. 
And  for  one  saintly  face  I  knew, 

All  babes  are  fair. 

Because  of  two  wide,  earnest  eyes 

Of  heavenly  blue, 
Which  looked  with  yearning  gaze 

My  sad  soul  through, 
All  eyes  now  fill  mine  own  with  tears 

Whate'er  their  hue. 

Two  little  hands  held  in  my  own, 

Long,  long,  ago, 
Now  cause  me,  as  I  wander  through 

This  world  of  woe. 
To  clasp  each  baby-hand  stretched  out 

In  fear  or  foe; 
The  lowest  cannot  plead  in  vain, 

I  loved  him  so. 

—  C.  C.  Hahn. 

143 


A  MOTHER  UNDERSTANDS 

TXT'HEN  mother  sits  beside  my  bed 

At  night,  and  strokes  and  smooths  my  head, 
And  kisses  me,  I  think,  some  way, 
How  naughty  I  have  been  all  day; 
Of  how  I  waded  in  the  brook. 
And  of  the  cookies  that  I  took, 
And  how  I  smashed  a  window  light 
A-rassling  —  me  and  Bobby  White  — 
And  tore  my  pants,  and  told  a  lie; 
It  almost  makes  me  want  to  cry 
When  mother  pats  and  kisses  me; 
I'm  just  as  sorry  as  can  be, 
But  I  don't  tell  her  so  —  no,  sir. 
She  knows  it  all;  you  can't  fool  her.        — Anon. 

"\T7'HEN  I  bin  swimmin*  all  day  long. 

And  had  a  fight  or  two 
An'  coming  home  in  the  ev'nin'  time 

A  feelin'  mad  and  blue. 
There's  just  one  thing  that  always  seems 

My  angry  thoughts  to  smother; 
An'  I  forget  them  when  I  see 
The  smilin'  face  of  mother. 

—  Harry  T.  Fee. 
144 


MOTHER'S  WAY 


TT7HENEVER  I  am  bad  all  day 

'  '      Until  I'm  really  'shamed  to  pray, 
I  wait  till  mother  comes  to  say 
"  Good  night,  dear  child."     That's  mother's  way. 


And  then,  somehow,  I  don't  know  why, 
I  tell  her  everything  and  cry. 
She  hugs  me  then,  and  right  away 
I  feel  less  sad.     That's  mother's  way. 

And  mother  kneels  down  by  my  bed 
And  pulls  my  face  close  to  her  head, 
And  we  both  snuggle  down  and  pray, 
That's  why  I'm  glad  for  mother's  way. 

—  Epworth  Herald. 


MY  mother  she's  so  good  to  me,  if  I  was  good  as 
I  could  be, 
I  couldn't  be  as  good,  no,  sir;  can't   any  boy  be 
good  as  her. 

—  James  JVhitcomb  Riley. 


145 


THE  CARES  OF  THE  DAY 

/^H,  mothers,  so  weary,  discouraged 
^^   Worn  out  with  the  cares  of  the  day, 
You  often  grow  cross  and  impatient, 
Complain  of  the  noise  and  the  play. 
For  the  day  brings  so  many  vexations, 
So  many  things  going  amiss; 
But,  mothers,  whatever  may  vex  you. 
Send  the  children  to  bed  with  a  kiss. 

—  Anon, 


T  WONDER  so  that  mothers  ever  fret 

At  little  children  clinging  to  their  gown; 
Or  that  the  footprints,  when  the  day  is  wet, 
Are  ever  black  enough  to  make  them  frown. 
If  I  could  find  a  little  muddy  boot. 
Or  cap  or  jacket  on  my  chamber  floor; 
If  I  could  kiss  a  rosy,  restless  foot, 
And  hear  it  patter  in  my  home  once  more. 

—  May  Riley  Smith. 


146 


A  MOTHER'S  CHARGE 

T    ORD,  who  ordaineth  for  mankind 
-*— '  Benignant  toils  and  tender  cares, 
We  thank  Thee  for  the  ties  that  bind 
The  mother  to  the  child  she  bears. 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  hopes  that  rise 
Within  her  heart,  as,  day  by  day. 
The  dawning  soul,  from  those  young  eyes, 
Looks,  with  a  clearer,  steadier  ray. 

And  grateful  for  the  blessing  given 
For  that  dear  infant  on  her  knee. 
She  trains  the  eye  to  look  to  Heaven, 
A  voice  to  lift  a  prayer  to  Thee. 

Such  thanks  the  blessed  Mary  gave. 
When  from  her  lap  the  Holy  Child, 
Sent  from  on  high  to  seek  and  save. 
The  lost  of  earth,  looked  up  and  smiled. 

All-Gracious!  grant  to  those  that  bear 
A  mother's  charge,  the  strength  and  light 
To  lead  the  steps  that  own  their  care 
In  ways  of  love  and  truth  and  right. 

—  William  Cullen  Bryant. 

147 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRIVILEGE 

^  I  ^HERE  may  be  some  mothers  who  feel  it  to  be 
"*•  a  self-denial  to  leave  their  parlors,  or  fireside, 
or  nook,  to  put  their  children  to  bed.  They  think 
that  the  nurse  could  do  just  as  well ;  that  it  is  of  no 
consequence  who  "  hears  the  children  say  their 
prayers."  Now,  setting  aside  the  pleasure  of  open- 
ing the  little  bed  and  tucking  the  darling  up,  there 
are  really  important  reasons  why  mothers  should  not 
yield  this  privilege  to  any  one. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  the  time  of  all  times  when 
a  child  is  inclined  to  show  its  confidence  and  affec- 
tion. All  its  little  secrets  come  out  with  truth  and 
less  restraints;  its  naughtiness  through  the  day  can 
be  reproved  and  talked  over  with  less  excitement, 
and  with  tenderness  and  calmness  necessary  to  make 
a  permanent  impression.  The  last  tones  at  night 
are  of  great  importance,  even  to  the  babies  of  the 
flock;  the  very  tones  of  the  voice  they  last  listened 
to  make  an  impression.      — Mother's  Magazine. 

OTORIES  first  heard  at  a  mother's  knee  are 
^^  never  wholly  forgotten  —  a  little  spring  that 
never  quite  dries  up  in  our  journey  through  scorch- 
ing years.  —  Ruffini. 

148 


MOTHER'S  KNEE 

WHAT  is  so  wondrous  as  mother's  knee? 
Where  so  delightful  a  spot  can  be? 
Beautiful  garden,  where  children  play, 
Romping  and  laughing  the  livelong  day; 
There  are  sung  all  of  our  nursery  rhymes, 
And  little  ones  have  all  the  best  of  times. 
A  wonderful  playground  is  mother's  knee. 
The  best  place  on  earth  for  a  child  to  be. 

What  is  so  wondrous  as  mother's  knee? 
When  night  comes  it's  the  place  to  be; 
No  longer  a  playground  it  is  at  night, 
But  a  drowsy  cradle,  soft  and  white, 
That  gently  swings,  until  it  seems 
Like  a  fairy  ship  on  the  sea  of  dreams; 
Oh,  a  mother's  knee  is  the  place  that's  best 
When  a  weary  baby  wants  a  rest. 

But  age  creeps  on  and  we  grown-ups  see 
No  longer  the  haven  of  mother's  knee; 
When  weary  and  faint  with  our  weight  of  woe, 
We've  no  such  comforting  place  to  go. 
When  night  time  comes  we  must  sink  to  rest, 
With  our  troubled  brows  still  uncaressed; 
And  we'd  give  our  all  once  again  to  be 
A  child  once  more  at  our  mother's  knee. 

—  Edgar  A.  Guest. 

149 


NOW  I  LAY  ME  DOWN  TO  SLEEP 

'"T^HE  fire  upon  the  hearth  is  low, 

-*•      And  there  is  stillness  everywhere; 
Like  troubled  spirits,  here  and  there 
The  firelight  shadows  fluttering  go ; 
And  as  the  shadows  round  me  creep, 
A  childish  treble  breaks  the  gloom 
And  softly  from  a  further  room 
Comes,  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep.  " 
And,  somehow,  with  that  little  prayer 
And  that  sweet  treble  in  my  ears, 
My  thought  goes  back  to  distant  years, 
And  lingers  with  a  dear  one  there; 
And  as  I  hear  the  child's  Amen, 

My  mother's  faith  comes  back  to  me, 

Crouched  at  her  side  I  seem  to  be. 
And  mother  holds  my  hands  again. 

O  for  an  hour  in  that  dear  place! 
O  for  the  peace  of  that  dear  time ! 
O  for  that  childish  trust  sublime! 

0  for  a  glimpse  of  mother's  face! 
Yet,  as  the  shadows  round  me  creep, 

1  do  not  seem  to  be  alone, — 
Sweet  magic  of  that  treble  tone 
And  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

—  Eugene  Field. 
150 


THE  GOOD-NIGHT  KISS 

MOTHERS,  do  not  think  the  time  wasted 
which  you  spent  in  reviewing  the  day  with 
your  little  boy  or  girl,  do  not  neglect  to  teach  it 
how  to  pray,  and  pray  for  it  in  simple  and  earnest 
language,  which  it  can  understand.  Soothe  and 
quiet  its  little  heart  after  the  experiences  of  the  day. 
It  has  had  its  disappointments  and  trials  as  well  as 
its  play  and  pleasures;  it  is  ready  to  throw  its  arm 
around  your  neck  and  take  its  good-night  kiss. 

—  Mothe/s  Magazine. 


*"  I  ^HE  sweetest  sound  heard  through  our  earthly 

"*•  home. 

The  brightest  ray  that  gleams  from  heaven's  dome. 
The  loveliest  flower  that  e'er  from  earth's  breast 

rose, 
The  purest  flame  that,  quivering,  gleams  and  glows, 
Are  found  alone,  where  kneels  a  mother  mild, 
With  heart  uplifted,  praying  for  her  child. 

—  M.  H.  H. 


151 


SHADOWS 

A  LL  day  they  frisk  about  the  tree,  quick  darting 
•*■  ^       as  if  shy, 
And  stay  right  close  till  ev'ning  drives  the  sunset 

from  the  sky; 
But  when  the  last  ray's  gone  below  the  hills  'way 

in  the  west 
The  little  shadows  spread  about  and  lull  the  world 

to  rest. 

And    even    in    the    sitting-room,    and    all    'round 

Mother's  chair. 
Those  frisky  shadows  dance  and  dart  —  they're  in 

the  very  air. 
But  one  place  where  they  never  come  is   in   my 

mother's  eyes. 
I've  looked   and  looked,  but  never  can   I  see  one 

shadow  rise; 

They   always   shine   a   steady   glow  —  it   must   be 

different  light 
My   mother's   eyes  show   all   the   time   from   that 

which  leaves  at  night. 
And  while  I  like  the  soft  dark  when  I'm  safe  and 

snug  in  bed. 
It's  good  to  know  of  one  place  where  there's  always 

light  instead.  — Alverdb  Van   Tuyll. 


MOTHER'S  EYES 

THERE'S  something  in  my  mother's  eyes  when 
bedtime  comes  at  night 
That  makes  me  want  to  look  at  her  and  do  the  thing 

that's  right. 
At  bedtime,  mother's  eyes  are  strange,  they  are  so 

soft  and  true; 
Her  words  are  very  gentle  and  her  hands  are  gentle, 
too. 


I  ask  her  questions  when  I'm  there  beside  her  on 

the  floor 
That  I  don't  like  to  ask  till  then,  or  never  thought 

before. 
Of  course  her  eyes  can't  talk,  I  know,  but,  when  I 

look,  I  see 
There's  something  in  them  every  time  that  must  be 

just  for  me. 
I  do  not  tell  her  what  I  see,  or  of  the  pain  it  brings, 
It  is  a  sort  o'  pain  that  makes  me  want  to  do  good 

things. 

—  John  Martin. 


153 


MY  FLOWER 

\  LL  day  long  I  had  worked  and  worried, 
■^  ^  Too  sad  for  solace,  too  tired  for  thought. 
Under  life's  crushing  burdens  buried 

I  had  spent  my  strength  and  my  brain  for  naught. 

•  •••••• 

Close  to  my  side  in  the  lengthening  shadows 

Crept  my  beautiful  five-year-old, 
Flushed  with  play  in  the  flowering  meadows, 

Head  like  a  nodding  marigold. 
Voice  of  the  wood-thrush  in  the  clover: 

"  Does  big  folks  get  tired  and  sleepy  too? 
Look  at  ze  rose  I  bringed  you,  muwer. 

Pretty  and  sweet.     It  dus'  like  you." 

Quick  to  my  desolate  heart  I  strained  him. 

He  had  known  no  shadow  his  whole  life  long. 
He  should  know  none  now.     The  soul  that  trained 

him 
Should   wring  from   sorrow  his  evensong. 
He  had  given  me  love  and  a  rose.     O  Father, 

Though  my  dream  had  faded,  my  eyes  were  dim, 
I  would  not  fail  him.     Lord  help  me  rather 
To  give  the  rose  of  my  life  to  him. 

—  Eleanor  Duncan  Wood. 
154 


LITTLE  :vIAN 

LITTLE  MAN!  Little  Man!  come  to  me  now! 
Come,  let  me  hold  you  tight! 
I  will  fold  you  away  in  the  nest  of  my  heart, 

Far  from  all  harm  to-night  — 
Deep  in  my  heart  is  a  garden 

Of  lilies  of  love,  and  they  glow 
In  the  light,  blooming  into  an  Eden 
That  only  a  mother  can  know. 

Little  Man!  Little  Man!  close  your  dear  eyes; 

I'll  sing  you  off  to  sleep, 
While  mystical  elfins  of  babyhood  dreams 

Hover  about  you,  and  creep 
Ever  so  lightly  to  lead  you 

Into  the  realm  where  love 
Dimples  your  pathway  with  kisses 

As  pure  as  the  dew  from  above. 

Little  Man!  Little  Man!  now  you  are  safe, 

Forever  safe  on  my  breast. 
Your  heart  in  my  heart  is  embedded, 

And  night  croons  a  song  of  rest. 
Rest  while  the  beautiful  lilies 

Of  love  guard  your  slumber  and  glow 
In  the  light  of  an  earthly  Eden 

That  only  a  mother  can  know.  — Anon. 

155 


CHILDHOOD 

T3EFORE  life's  sweetest  mystery  still  the  heart 

■^'^       in  reverence  kneels; 

The  wonder  of  the  primal  birth  the  latest  mother 
feels. 

We  need  love's  tender  lessons  taught  as  only  weak- 
ness can ; 

God  has  his  small  interpreters ;  the  child  must  teach 
the  man. 

And  happy,  pleading  long  with   Him  for  sin-sick 

hearts  and  cold, 
The  angels  of  our  childhood  still  the  Father's  face 

behold. 
Of  such  the  kingdom!     Teach  thus  us,  O  Master 

most  divine, 
To  feel  the  deep  significance  of  these  wise  words  of 

thine ! 

The  haughty  feet  of  power  shall  fail  where  meekness 

surely  goes ; 
No  cunning  find  the  key  of  heaven,  no  strength  its 

gates  unclose. 
Alone  to   guilelessness  and   love  those   gates  shall 

open  fall; 
The  mind  of  pride  is  nothingness,  the  childlike  heart 

is  all.  —  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


IN  CHILDHOOD'S  HOURS 

'T^HERE  was  a  place  in  childhood  that  I  remem- 

-'■  her  well, 

And   there   a   voice  of  sweetest   tone  bright   fairy 
tales  did  tell. 

—  Samuel  Lover. 


THE  years  pass  like  summer  clouds,  and  the 
children  of  yesterday  are  the  wives  and 
mothers  of  to-day.  Even  I  do  sometimes  discover 
the  mild  eyes  of  my  Prue  fixed  pensively  upon  my 
face,  as  if  searching  for  the  bloom  which  she  remem- 
bers there  in  the  days,  long  ago,  when  we  were 
young.  She  will  never  see  it  there  again,  any  more 
than  the  flowers  she  held  in  her  hand,  in  our  old 
spring  rambles.  Yet  the  tear  that  slowly  gathers 
as  she  gazes  is  not  grief  that  the  bloom  has  faded 
from  my  cheek,  but  the  sweet  consciousness  that  it 
will  never  fade  from  my  heart;  and  as  her  eyes 
fall  upon  her  work  again,  or  the  children  climb  her 
lap  to  hear  the  old  fairy-tales  they  already  know 
by  heart,  my  wife  Prue  is  dearer  to  me  than  the 
sweetheart  of  those  days  long  ago. 

—  George  W.  Curtis. 

157 


A  LITTLE  LAD'S  ANSWER 

/^UR  little  lad  came  in  one  day 
^^   With  dusty  shoes  and  tired  feet ; 
His  playtime  had  been  hard  and  long, 

Out  in  the  summer's  noontide  heat. 
"  I'm  glad  I'm  home,"  he  cried,  and  hung 

His  torn  straw  hat  up  in  the  hall. 
While  in  the  corner  by  the  door 

He  put  away  his  bat  and  ball. 

"  I  wonder  why,"  his  auntie  said, 

"  This  little  lad  comes  always  here, 
When  there  are  many  other  homes 

As  nice  as  this  and  quite  as  near  ?  " 
He  stood  a  moment  deep  in  thought. 

Then,  with  a  love  light  in  his  eye. 
He  pointed  where  his  mother  sat. 

And  said :     "  She  lives  here,  that  is  why." 

With  beaming  face  the  mother  heard; 

Her  mother-heart  was  very  glad. 
A  true,  sweet  answer  he  had  given. 

That  thoughtful,   loving  little  lad. 
And  well  I  know  that  hosts  of  lads 

Are  just  as  loving,  true,  and  dear; 
That  they  would  answer  as  he  did: 

"  'Tis  home,  for  mother's  living  here." 

—  Christian  Advocate. 
158 


DREAMS 

A     MOTHER  sat  in  the  twilight  dim, 
■*-  •*-    Holding  her  boy  while  she  talked  to  him. 
"  Now,  tell  me,  what  are  you  going  to  be 
When  grown  to  a  man,  dear  heart,"  said  she. 

"  A  soldier !  "  eager  replied  the  child. 

But  the  mother  tenderlj^,  sadly  smiled. 

"And  fight  —  and  be  killed,  perhaps?     No,  no! 

My  laddy!     I  could  not  let  you  go!  " 

"A  sailor,  speeding  the  ocean  o'er!  " 
But  the  mother  cuddled  him  close  once  more. 
"And   maybe  never  come  back?     Fie,   fie!" 
She  whispered  in  tones  part  laugh,  part  sigh. 

A  puzzled  look  on  the  boy's  fair  face 
Showed  of  his  wavering  thoughts  a  trace. 
At  length,  in  a  voice  all  satisfied : 
"Why  —  then  I'll  marrj^!"  he  stoutly  cried. 

The  mother  jealously  smoothed  his  head. 
"  And  what  will  become  of  mef  "  she  said. 
The  lips  of  the  boy  sought  hers  anew  — 
"But,  darhng  mother,  I'll  marry  you!" 

—  E.  L.  Sabin. 
159 


HIS  FIRST  NIGHT  AWAY 

'  I  ^HE  neighbor  lad  had  teased,  and  so  had  he, 

-■■     Till  Mother  sighed :     "  Well,  if  it  has  to  be !  " 
And  Father  said:     "  Sure!     Let  him  run  along; 
It's  so  near  by  there's  nothing  can  go  wrong." 
So  Mother  rolled  his  gown  into  a  lump 

Smaller  than  one  her  throat  held ;  put  his  comb 
In  with  it;  and  he  left,  with  joy  a-jump  — 

First  time  he  stayed  all  night  away  from  home! 

He  choked  a  little  when  he  said  good-night 

To  stranger-parents ;  and  he  saw  a  light 

Shining  in  his  own  house,  two  worlds  away 

In  the  next  block;  then  dreamed  till  dawning  day 

That  he  was  homeless.     At  their  breakfast-time 

He  could  not  eat,  but  made  his  homesick  flight 
Without  adieux — to  him  no  social  crime  — 

When  first  he  stayed  away  from  home  all  night. 

And  mother  met  him  with  her  arms  outspread, 

And  in  her  loving  bosom  hid  his  head 

A  long,  long  time  while  neither  of  them  stirred 

Nor  anybody  said  a  single  word. 

In  her  a  pang  old  as  maternity 

Forewarned  her  of  long  partings  that  must  come ; 
For  him  had  ended  all  eternity  — 

First  time  he'd  stayed  all  night  away  from  home! 

—  Strickland  W.  Gillilan. 
1 60 


MOTHER'S  BOY 

TN  the  days  of  childish  troubles,  when  our  little 

"*•       world  was  darkened 

With  the  clouds  that  mean  such  gloomy  times  when 

on  young  hearts  they  rest, 
There  was  one  unfailing  refuge,  one  sure  fount  of 

consolation, 
And    all   our    troubles    faded,    sobbed    out   on   our 

mother's  breast. 

Oh,  that  refuge  of  our  childhood!  Oh,  that  love 

which  never  faltered ! 
To  whose  sympathies  so  tender  not  a  sorrow  was 

too  small 
For  the  kindest  understanding,  for  the  fondest  of 

consoling, 
Till  the  clouds  began  to   roll  away,   and  love  to 

lighten  all. 

When  a  man  keeps  fresh  within  him  that  touch  of  a 

child's  dependence, 
All  his  nature  feels  the  power  of  its  softening  alloy ; 
And  more  human  to  his  fellows,  more  responsive 

to  all  feeling. 
Is  the  man  who  deep   down   in  his  heart   is  still 

"a  mother's  boy."     — Baltimore  American. 
l6i 


v 


MOTHERS  AND  SONS 

"|\/rOST  boys  go  through  a  period  when  they  have 
■^  -*•  need  of  great  patience  at  home.  They  are 
strangely  wilful  and  perverse  and  very  sensitive  to 
the  least  word  of  censure  or  effort  at  restraint. 
Authority  frets  them.  They  are  leaving  childhood, 
but  they  have  not  reached  the  sober  good  sense  of 
manhood.  Now  is  the  mother's  hour.  Her  boy 
needs  her  now  more  than  when  he  lay  in  his  cradle. 
Her  fine  insight  and  serene  faith  may  hold  him 
fast  and  prevent  his  drifting  into  dangerous  courses. 
There  is  very  much  a  mother  can  do  for  "her  son, 
and  that  a  son  can  receive  only  from  his  mother  in 
this  critical  period  of  life. 

—  Christian  Intelligencer. 


TT  is  a  good  thing  for  a  boy  to  be  proud  of  his 
mother;  to  feel  complacent  when  he  introduces 
her  to  his  comrades,  knowing  that  they  cannot  help 
seeing  what  a  pretty  woman  she  is,  so  graceful,  win- 
some, and  attractive!  There  is  always  hope  for  a 
boy  when  he  admires  his  mother,  and  mothers 
should  care  to  be  admirable  in  the  eyes  of  their  sons. 

—  M.  H.  H. 
162 


THE  MOTHER'S  SACRIFICE 

''  I  ''HERE  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the  love  of 
■■■  a  mother  to  a  son,  that  transcends  all  the 
affections  of  the  heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled 
by  selfishness,  nor  daunted  by  danger,  nor  weakened, 
nor  stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice  every 
comfort  to  his  convenience ;  she  will  surrender  every 
pleasure  to  his  enjoyment ;  she  will  glory  in  his  fame, 
and  exult  in  his  prosperity;  and  if  adversity  over- 
take him,  he  will  be  dearer  by  misfortune;  and  if 
disgrace  settles  upon  his  name,  she  will  still  love 
and  cherish  him;  and  if  all  the  world  beside  cast 
him  ofi,  she  will  be  all  the  world  to  him. 

—  Washington  Irving. 


^  I  '*0  a  man  there  Is  no  better  support  nor  comfort 
"*■  than  his  mother,  whose  love  is  more  nearly 
divine  than  any  other  human  love  which  he  can  ever 
experience,  because  it  is  the  most  unselfish  of  all 
loves,  and  the  love  which  is  sure  to  remain  his  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave. 

—  Francis  Evans. 


163 


THE  CHILD'S  SCHOOLROOM 

^  I  ""HE  mother's  heart  is  the  child's  schoolroom. 
-■■  When  God  thought  of  Mother,  He  must 
have  laughed  with  satisfaction  and  framed  it 
quickly, —  so  rich,  so  deep,  so  divine,  so  full  of  soul, 
power  and  beauty  was  the  conception. 

—  Henry   Ward  Beecher. 

A^OD  made  mothers  before  He  made  ministers; 

^^  the  progress  of  Christ's  kingdom  depends 
more  upon  the  influence  of  faithful,  wise  and  pious 
mothers  than  upon  any  other  human  agency.  My 
mother's  discipline  was  loving  but  thorough.  She 
never  bribed  me  to  good  conduct  with  sugar  plums  ; 
she  praised  every  commendable  deed  heartily,  for 
she  held  that  an  ounce  of  honest  praise  is  often 
worth  more  than  many  pounds  of  punishments. 

—  Theodore  Cuyler. 

O'ER  wayward  children  would'st  thou  hold  firm 
rule 
And  sun  thee  in  the  light  of  happy  faces? 

Love,  Hope  and  Patience, —  these  must  be  thy 
graces, 
And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first  keep  school. 

—  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 
164 


THE  MOTHER  AS  TEACHER 

FOR  she  is  and  must  be,  whether  she  knows  it  or 
not,  the  greatest,  strongest,  and  most  lasting 
teacher  her  children  ever  have.  Other  influences 
come  and  go,  but  hers  is  continual ;  and  by  the  opin- 
ion men  have  of  women  we  can  generally  judge  of 
the  sort  of  mother  they  had. 

—  Hannah   JVhitall  Smith. 


OF  all  the  influences  which  can  be  exercised  in 
the  training  of  children,  the  force  of  a  good 
example  is  most  potent.  A  child's  imitative  faculty 
is  extraordinary,  and  he  copies  instinctively,  even 
during  babyhood,  the  habits,  the  ways,  the  very 
intonations  of  his  parents.  Its  standard  of  right 
and  duty  is  their  standard.  It  thinks  and  believes 
as  they  think  and  believe,  and  if  parents  build  a 
faulty  foundation  for  their  child's  character,  the 
help  and  instruction  of  after  years  cannot  altogether 
repair  the  injury. 

—  Eleanor  A.  Hunter. 


165 


THE  WISE  MOTHER 

'TT^HE  wise  mother,  training  her  daughter  not  for 
•*■  the  moment  but  for  all  time,  will  realize  that 
there  are  no  small  things  where  a  child  is  concerned  ; 
that  some  things,  apparently  the  most  trivial,  will 
have  far-reaching  results,  and  thus  with  a  critical 
eye  she  will  scan  all  influences  that  surround  the 
infant  and  eliminate  all  that  seem  in  the  least  cal- 
culated to  interfere  with  her  most  harmonious  de- 
velopments. 

—  Mary   Wood  Allen. 


OTRENGTH  and  dignity  are  her  clothing; 
^^  And  she  laugheth  at  the  time  to  come. 
She   openeth   her   mouth   to   wisdom ; 
And  the  law  of  kindness  is  on  her  tongue. 
She  looketh  well  to  the  ways  of  her  household, 
And  eateth  not  the  bread  of  idleness; 
Her  children  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed, 
Her  husband,  also,  and  he  praiseth  her,  saying, 
Many  daughters  have  done  virtuously, 
But  thou  excelleth  them  all. 

—  Prov.  3i;25-2g. 


1 66 


CHARACTER-BUILDING 

'TP^HE  most  important  thing  for  the  mothers  to 
-*■      consider  to-day  is  the  building  of  character, 
not  alone  for  themselves,  but  also  for  the  precious 
little  ones  who  are  the  sunlight  of  their  homes. 

In  character-building  there  must  be  considered 
the  physical,  the  mental  and  the  spiritual;  in  other 
words,  body,  mind  and  soul.  In  human  life  these 
must  vibrate  harmoniously  in  order  to  make  the 
well-developed,  the  self-poised  man  or  woman,  able 
to  bear  calmly  whatever  of  pleasure  or  pain  falls  to 
their  lot.  And  she  is  a  wise  mother  who  begins  this 
work  with  her  children  in  their  earliest  years. 

It  is  because  woman  is  the  mother  of  the  race 
that  upon  her  rests  the  burden  of  responsibility  for 
the  development  of  this  side  of  the  character.  The 
mother  of  the  race!  Oh,  the  glory  of  it!  For  do 
you  not  see  how  it  links  her  with  the  great  creative 
spirit  that  broods  over  the  universe?  Do  you  not 
see  how  in  the  mother-heart  lies  nestling  the  love 
which  is  the  law  of  life?  This  it  is  which  makes 
it  so  necessary  for  woman  to  hold  herself  to  the 
highest  ideals. 

—  Emily  S.  Boulton. 


167 


ONLY  ME 

A     LITTLE  figure  glided  through  the  hall. 

"  Is  that  j^ou,  Pet?  "  the  words  came  tenderly. 
A  sob,  suppressed  to  let  the  answer  fall, — 
"  It  isn't  Pet,  mamma,  it's  only  me." 

The  quivering  baby  lips!     They  had  not  meant 
To  utter  any  word  could  plant  a  sting, 
But  to  that  mother-heart  a  strange  pang  went, 
She  heard,  and  stood  like  a  convicted  thing. 

One  instant,  and  a  happy  little  face 
Thrilled  'neath  unwonted  kisses  rained  above; 
And  from  that  moment  "  Only  me  "  had  place 
And  part  with  Pet  in  tender  mother-love. 

—  Caroline  A.  Mason. 


A  ND  if  God  wills  that  even  baby  feet 
■^  ^  Shall  feel  the  sharpness  of  life's  toilsome  way, 
Be  sure  that  recompense  most  full  and  sweet 
Is  waiting  for  these  little  ones  some  day. 

—  May  Riley  Smith. 


1 68 


THE  TOYS 

1%  TY  little  son,  who  looked  from  thoughtful  eyes, 

■^'^-*-   And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobeyed, 

I  struck  him  and  dismissed 

With  hard  words  and  unkissed, — 

His  mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 

Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 

I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep. 

With  darkened  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 

From  his  late  sobbing,  wet. 

And  I  with  moan. 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head 

He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-veined  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach. 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with 

Careful  art. 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 

—  Coventry  Patmore. 


169 


"MOTHER!  I  LOVE  YOU" 

OOMETIMES  there  will  come  to  our  notice  in 
^^  the  busiest  moments  of  the  daj'^  some  sincere 
sentiment  which  will  stir  the  tenderest  chords  of 
our  being.  A  pleasant-faced  woman  boarded  a  trol- 
ley car  with  her  two  small  sons  during  the  busy  noon 
hour  of  the  holiday  season.  The  smaller  boy  sat 
with  his  mother  upon  one  side  of  the  car,  while 
the  older,  who  was  about  four  years  old,  took  a  seat 
opposite.  It  interested  him  to  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow, but  frequently  he  glanced  across  at  his  mother. 
At  length  he  called  softly:  "Mother!"  No  an- 
swer. Again  he  spoke:  "Mother!"  This  time 
it  was  said  a  bit  louder,  and  the  mother  looked  over 
and  smiled.  The  boy's  eyes  lighted,  and  he  whis- 
pered: "Mother!  I  love  you."  The  mother 
turned  a  glorified  face  upon  her  small  son,  and  men 
and  women  in  the  car  looked  tenderly  from  one 
to  the  other.  The  trolley  car  had  suddenly  become 
a  place  of  blessing  because  a  little  boy  had  voiced 
this  ever-beautiful  sentiment:  "Mother!  I  love 
you." 

—  Zions  Herald. 


170 


"  NO,  I'LL  NOT  FORGET  " 

/^NE  day  the  mother  was  holding  her  little  lad 
^^  upon  her  lap,  as  she  often  did.  But  on  this 
occasion  she  gazed  so  searchingly  into  his  eyes  that 
the  little  fellow  waxed  uneasy  under  the  glance. 
Answering  his  childish  questions,  she  told  him  that 
she  was  looking  for  his  heart.  "  Look  in  your 
mother's  eyes,  lad,"  said  she,  "  and  say  after  me  this: 

"  '  My  mother  —  looked  upon  my  heart  —  and 
found  it  brave  —  and  sweet  —  willing  for  the  day's 
work  —  and  harboring  no  shameful  hope.'  " 

She  had  him  repeat  it  again  and  again,  until  he 
knew  every  word  by  heart.  Then,  at  last,  the 
mother  said:  "Ah,  but  you'll  forget!"  Swiftly 
the  lad  answered,  "  No,  no!     I'll  not  forget." 

Years  passed,  and  as  the  child,  now  a  man,  spoke 
of  that  distant  hour  of  childhood,  he  said:  "  But  I 
have  not  forgotten  —  I  have  not  forgotten  —  I  have 
never  forgotten  —  that  when  I  was  a  child  my 
mother  looked  upon  my  heart  and  found  it  brave 
and  sweet,  willing  for  the  day's  work  and  harboring 
no  shameful  hope." 

—  Norman  Duncan. 


171 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  TRUE  MOTHER 

TT^OR  unwearying  patience  and  unchanging  ten- 
■*-  derness,  the  love  of  a  true  mother  stands  next 
to  the  love  of  our  Father  in  Heaven. 

—  Anon. 


TN  childhood  when  I  crept  to  lay  my  tired  head 

on  her  knee, 
How  gently  shone  the  mother-love  in  those   dear 

eyes  on  me; 
And  when  in  youth  my  eager  feet  roamed  from  her 

side  afar, 
Where'er    I   went   that   light   divine   was    aye   my 

guiding  star.  — L.  M.  Montgomery. 


A  ND  though  the  miles  divide  us,  we'll  still  walk 
■*'  ^       hand  in  hand. 
For  mother   heart   or  child   heart  will   all   things 

understand. 
No  matter  where  I  journey,  or  what  my  life  shall 

fill, 
My  heart  shall  yet  be  loyal  —  thou  art  my  mother 
still.  — Edwin   Osgood   Graver. 

172 


THE  JOYS  OF  MOTHERHOOD 

^  I  ^HE  bliss  the  mother  casts  aside  when  she  does 
-■■      not  respond  to  her  baby's  appeal  for  love  and 
guidance  is  untold. 

Said  an  overburdened  and  overworked  mother  not 
long  ago:  "  It  is  not  the  constant  occupation  or  the 
severity  of  my  tasks  which  I  deplore,  but  the  fact 
that  I  am  missing  something  that  can  never  come 
again  —  all  my  child's  beautiful  babyhood.  Think 
of  that,  mothers,  who  get  away  as  fast  and  as  far 
as  possible  from  the  care  and  ministry  of  your  chil- 
dren. Do  5'ou  realize  what  you  miss  of  the  charm 
of  your  baby's  presence,  the  waking  of  new  intelli- 
gence in  his  eyes,  the  caressing  of  dimpled  fingers, 
the  comfort  of  the  warm  little  head  against  your 
neck,  the  first  cooing  laugh,  the  first  effort  to  speak, 
the  blessed  movements  over  his  cradle,  and  the  holy 
time  when  he  sinks  away  to  sleep  in  your  arms  ? 

Whatever  in  the  life  of  a  woman  deprives  her  of 
the  qualities  that  make  good  motherhood  deprives 
the  child  of  its  best  heritage  —  wise  guidance  and 
tender  care  —  and  deprives  the  nation  of  its  strong- 
est molding  influence  and  its  greatest  power  for 
good. 

—  Tiion's  Herald. 

173 


ASLEEP  AMONG  HIS  TOYS 

T  FOUND  my  babe  asleep  among  his  toys. 
^     A  quarter-hour  I'd  missed  his  jocund  noise 
And  wondered  what  so  quieted  the  lad, 
Saying:     "  He's  never  still  unless  he's  bad," 
But  when  I  tiptoed  in  —  Love's  stealthy  spy  — 
A  touching  picture  met  my  doting  eye: 
One  hand  lay  on  the  engine  of  his  train, 
The  other  grasped  a  tiny  aeroplane. 


Some  time  the  great,  kind  Father  of  us  all, 
Noting  we  make  no  answer  to  His  call, 
Will  find  us  'mid  our  playthings,  fast  asleep, 
Our  toys  about  us  in  a  tumbled  heap. 
Each  weary  hand  upon  a  trinket  laid  — 
Some  phantom  hope  born  in  the  marts  of  trade. 
Then,  in  His  arms,  the  cares  our  hearts  possessed 
Will  yield  their  place  to  sweet  and  dreamless  rest. 

—  Strickland  Gillilan. 


174 


MUWER  DEAR 

T    AS'  year  they  wasn't  any  ChnVmus  to  our  house 
-'-^  For  anybody,  though  they  tried  an'  tried 
To  make  it  seem  like  Chris'mus,  'ceptin'  me; 

I  was  so  lonesome  I  jest  cried  an'  cried. 
My  fawer  is  the  goodest  man  that  is, 

But  still  he  couldn't  take  Her  place  —  not  near. 
They  was  a  tree  an'  presinks  —  everything 

'Cept  Muvver  dear.     She  wasn't  here  las'  year! 

Long  time  afore,  I  writed  out  my  list 

Of  what  I  wanted,  an'  'twas  lots  of  fun, 
But  Muwer  dear,  she  didn't  'joy  it  much; 

She  had  a  orful  headache  when  'twas  done. 
Next  day  the  doctor  come  an'  talked  an'  talked, 

An'  made  her  smoke  a  'mometer,  an'  nen 
He  took  her  'way  away  in  his  machine 

To  where  folks  live  till  they  get  well  again. 

But  on  Thanksgivin'  Fawer  smiled  an'  smiled, 
An'  pinch  my  ear  an'  say,  "  Good  news,  my  lad; 

In  one  month  more  we'll  have  her  back  again 
All  well  an'  happy.     My !  won't  we  be  glad !  " 

They  ain't  a  thing  I  want  this  Chris-mustime 
Esceptin'  Muvver  dear  —  an'  she'll  be  here! 
—  Everard  Jack  Appleton. 
175 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER 

T^EAR  Lord,  dear  Lord  .  .  . 

•^-^  Thou  who  didst  not  erst  deny  the  mother- 
joy  to  Mary  mild 

Blessed  in  the  blessed  Child  —  hearkening  in  meek 
babyhood 

Her  cradle  hymn,  albeit  used  to  all  music  inter- 
fused 

In  breasts  of  angels  high  and  good. 

Oh,  take  not,  Lord,  my  babe  away  — 

Oh,  take  not  to  thy  songful  heaven, 
The  pretty  baby  thou  hast  given; 

Or  ere  that  I  have  seen  him  play 
Around  his  father's  knees,  and  known 
That  he  knew  how  my  love  hath  gone  from  all  the 
world  to  him. 

—  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


/^H,  the  love  of  a  mother,  love  which  none  can 
^^  forget. 

—  Victor  Hugo. 


176 


MOTHER-LOVE 

T  WILL  shut  these  broken  toj's  away 
•*•     Under  the  lid  where  they  mutely  bide ; 
I  will  smile  in  the  face  of  noisy  day, 
Just  as  if  baby  had  never  died. 

I  will  take  up  my  work  once  more, 
As  if  I  had  never  laid  it  down; 

Who  will  dream  that  I  ever  wore 
Motherhood's  regal,  holy  crown? 

Man's  way  is  hard  and  sore  beset ; 

Many  may  fall,  but  few  can  win. 
Thanks,  dear  Shepherd !  my  lamb  is  safe, — 

Safe  from  sorrow,  and  safe  from  sin. 

Nevertheless,  the  way  is  long. 

And  tears  leap  in  the  light  of  the  sun ; 

I'd  give  my  world  for  a  cradle-song. 
And  a  kiss  from  baby  —  only  one. 

—  Mary  Clemmer. 


177 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

T  KNOW  a  pretty  Lady  and  I  like  to  see  her  go 
■*■     Into  the  garden  where  the  vines  and  trees  and 

flowers  grow, 
She  walks  along  the  gravel  path  as  if  she  were  a 

queen, 
She  is  the  very  nicest  one  that  you  have  ever  seen. 


I  like  to  see  her  pick  a  rose  just  with  her  finger  tips, 
For  then  her  eyes  have  smiles  in  them  exactly  like 

her  lips; 
The  Lady  says,   I   am  her  knight:  that  she's  my 

Lady  Fair. 
She   says:     "Go    forth,    Sir    Noble    Knight,    and 

bravely  do  and  dare." 

These   are  the  words  I've  often  heard  my  lovely 

Lady  say. 
And  I  remember,  as  I  try  to  mind  in  every  way. 
Come  over  to  my  house  and  play,  and  she'll  be  nice 

to  you; 
For  she's  my  Mother  all  the  time,  and  Lovely  Lady, 

too. 

—  John  Martin. 


178 


PHILIP,  MY  KING! 

T    OOK  at  me  with  thy  brown  eyes, 

^-^  Philip,   my  king! 

For  round  thee  the  purple  shadows  lie 

Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities; 

Lay  on  thy  neck  thy  tiny  hand 

With  love's  invisible  scepter  laden; 
I  am  thine,  Esther,  to  command 

Till  thou  shalt  find  thy  queen  handmaiden, 
Philip,  my  king! 

Oh,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-wooing, 

Philip,  my  king! 
When  those  beautiful  lips  'gin  suing, 
And  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing, 
Thou  dost  enter  love-crowned,  and  there 

Sitteth,   love   glorified  !  —  Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair; 

For  we  that  love,  oh !  we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip,  my  king! 

—  Dinah  Muloch  Craik. 


179 


ONLY  A  LITTLE  GRAVE 

6  4TT'S  only  a  little  grave,"  they  said, 

-■-  "  Only  a  child  that's  dead ;  " 
And  so  they  carefully  turned  away 
From  the  mound  the  spade  had  made  that  day. 
Ah !     They  did  not  know  how  deep  a  shade 
That  little  grave  in  our  home  had  made. 

'Tis  a  little  grave;  but  oh,  have  care! 

For  world-wide  hopes  are  buried  there; 

And  ye,  perhaps  in  coming  years. 

May  see,  like  her,  through  blinding  tears, 

How  much  of  light,  how  much  of  joy, 

Is  buried  with  an  only  boy.  — Anon. 


WHEN  babes  that  in  their  cradles  sleep, 
Or  cling  to  you  in  perfect  trust, 
Think  of  the  mothers  left  to  weep 
Their  infants  lying  in  the  dust. 
And  when  the  step  you  wait  for  comes. 
And  all  your  world  is  full  of  light, 
O  woman  safe  in  happy  homes. 
Pray  for  all  lonesome  souls  to-night. 

—  Anon. 
1 80 


A  MOTHER'S  HEART 

A    LITTLE  dreaming,  such  as  mothers  know ; 
A  little  lingering  over  dainty  things; 
A  happy  heart,  wherein  hope  all  aglow 

Stirs  like  a  bird  at  dawn  that  wakes  and  sings, 
And  that  is  all. 

A  little  clasping  to  her  yearning  breast; 

A  little  musing  over  future  years; 
A  heart  that  prays:     "  Dear  Lord,  Thou  knowest 
best  — 
But    spare    my    flower    life's    bitterest    rain    of 
tears   — 

And  that  is  all. 

A  little  spirit  speeding  through  the  night; 

A  little  home  grown  lonely,  dark  and  chill; 
A  sad  heart  groping  for  the  light; 

A  little  snow-clad  grave  beneath  the  hill  — 
And  that  is  all. 

A  little  gathering  of  life's  broken  thread ; 

A  little  patience  keeping  back  the  tears; 
A  song  that  sings,  "  Thy  darling  is  not  dead, 
God  keep  her  safe  through  His  eternal  years  " — 
And  that  is  all. 

—  Macmillan's  Magazine. 
i8i 


MY  LITTLE  LAD  WHO  DIED 

T  HEARD  their  prayers  and  kissed  their  sleepy 
-*■         eyes, 

And  tucked  them  in  all  warm  from  feet  to  head, 
To  wake  again  with  morning's  glad  sunrise, — 

Then  came  where  he  lay  dead. 

Those  other  children  to  men  have  grown, — 

Strange,    hurried    men,    who    give    me    passing 
thought. 

They  go  their  ways.     No  longer  now  my  own. 
Without  me  they  have  wrought. 

So  when  night  comes,  and  seeking  mother's  hour, 
Tired  childish  feet  turn  home  at  eventide, 

I  fold  him  close, —  the  child  that's  left  to  me, 
My  little  lad  who  died.  — Anon. 

OO,  one  by  one,  the  children  have  gone, 

^  The  boys  were  five  and  the  girls  were  three; 

And  the  big  brown  house  is  gloomy  and  lone, 

With  but  two  old  folks  for  its  company. 

They  talk  to  each  other  about  the  past, 

As  they  sit  together  in  eventide, 

And  say,  "  All  the  children  we  keep  at  last 

Are  the  boys  and  girls  who  in  childhood  died." 

—  Anon. 
182 


SILENT  AND  LONE 

SILENT  and  lone,  silent  and  lone! 
WTiere,  tell  me  where  are  the  little  ones  gone? 
There  are  no  little  faces  to  wash  to-night, 
No  little  troubles  for  mother  to  right, 
No  little  blue  eyes  to  be  sung  to  sleep 
No  little  plaj'things  to  be  put  up  to  keep.  .  .  . 
No  little  soft  lips  to  press  me  with  kisses  — 
Oh!  such  a  sad,  lonely  evening  as  this  is; 
No  little  voices  to  shout  with  delight, 
"  Good  night,  dear  mamma,  good  night,  good  night." 
Silent  the  house  is,  no  little  ones  here, 
To  startle  a  smile  or  to  chase  back  a  tear. 

Silent  and  lone,  silent  and  lone! 
Where,  tell  me  where  are  my  little  ones  gone? 
It  seemeth  but  yesterday  since  they  were  young; 
Now  they  are  all  scattered  the  world's  paths  among ; 

Little  ones,  loving  ones,  playful  ones  all. 
That  went  when  I  bade  and  came  at  my  call, 
Have  you  deserted  me?     Will  you  not  come 
Back  to  your  mother's  arms,  back  to  the  home? 

—  Frances  D.  Gage. 


183 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  HOME 

A  LONE  she  moves,  the  queen  of  her  own  quiet 
•^^  home.  — Mark   Trafton. 

'  I  ^HE  Mother  with  her  needle  and  her  shears  gars 
-*■      auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new. 

—  Robert  Burns 

\T70MEN  know 

"  ^     The  way  to  rear  up  children  (to  be  just) 
They  have  a  merry,  simple,  tender  knack 
Of  tying  sashes,  fitting  babies'  shoes, 
And  stringing  pretty  words  that  make  no  sense 
And  kissing  full  sense  into  empty  words. 
Which  things  are  corals  to  cut  life  upon 
Although  such  trifles. 

—  Elizabeth  Barret  Browning. 

T>LAYING  with  the  little  people 
"■■     Sweet  old  games  forever  new, 
Coaxing,  cuddling,  cooing,  kissing, 
Baby's  every  grief  dismissing. 
Laughing,  sighing,  soothing,  singing 
While  the  happy  days  are  winging, 
This  is  what  the  mothers  do. 

—  Mary  L.  C.  Robinson. 
184 


HOME  IS  HER  KINGDOM 

HOME  is  her  kingdom,  love  is  her  dower; 
She  seeks  no  other  wand  of  power 
To  make  home  sweet,  bring  heaven  near, 
To  win  a  smile  and  wipe  a  tear 
And  do  her  duty  day  by  day 
In  her  own  quiet  place  and  way. 

Around  her  childish  hearts  are  twined, 
As  with  some  reverend  saint  enshrined, 
And  following  hers  the  childish  feet 
Are  led  to  ideals  true  and  sweet 
And  find  all  purity  and  good 
In  her  divinest  motherhood. 


She  keeps  her  faith  unshadowed  still; 
God  rules  the  world  in  good  and  ill; 
Men  in  her  creed  are  brave  and  true 
And  women  pure  as  pearls  of  dew, 
And  life  for  her  is  high  and  grand 
By  work  and  glad  endeavor  spanned. 

—  L.  M.  Montgomery. 


185 


THE  HOME  DREAM 

TF  you  wanted  to  gather  up  all  tender  memories, 
-■•  all  lights  and  shadows  of  the  heart,  all  banquet- 
ings  and  reunions,  all  filial,  fraternal,  paternal,  con- 
jugal affections,  and  had  only  just  four  letters  with 
which  to  spell  out  the  height  and  depth  and  length 
and  breadth  and  magnitude  and  eternity  of  mean- 
ing, you  would  write  it  all  out  with  these  four 
capital  letters:     HOME. 

—  T.  DeWitt  Talmage. 

/^F  all  dreams,  the  home  dream,  the  dream  of 

^^       the  little  old  place. 

The  path  where  the  willows  are  bending  and  there's 

many  a  happy  face. 
With  the  ringing  of  sunny  laughter  and  the  music 

of  hearts  that  sing 
In  the  golden  porches  of  beauty  as  home  to  the 

dream  they  wing.  — Anon. 

T  TOME  is  the  resort 

"*■■*■  Of  love,  of  joy,  of  peace,  and  plenty,  where 
Supporting  and  supported,  polish'd  friends, 
And  dear  relations  mingle  into  bliss. 

—  James  Thomson. 
i86 


MOTHER  AND  HOME 

THERE  is  one  vision  that  never  fades  from  the 
soul,  and  that  is  the  vision  of  mother  and  the 
home.  No  man  in  all  his  many  wanderings  ever 
goes  out  beyond  the  overshadowing  arch  of  home. 
Let  him  stand  on  the  surf-beaten  coast  of  the  At- 
lantic, or  roam  our  western  wilds,  and  every  dash 
of  the  wave  and  murmur  of  the  breeze  will  whisper, 
home,  sweet  home.  Set  him  dovvn  among  the  gla- 
ciers of  the  North,  and  even  there  thoughts  of 
home,  too  warmed  to  be  chilled  by  the  eternal 
frosts,  will  float  upon  him. 

Let  him  rove  through  the  green,  waving  groves, 
and  over  the  sunny  slopes  of  the  South,  and  in  the 
smile  of  the  soft  skies,  and  in  the  kiss  of  the  balmy 
breeze,  home  will  live  again. 

—  H.  H.  Birkins. 


"IT /"HERE  we  love  is  home. 
^  ^     Home  where  our  feet  may  leave  but  not  our 
hearts. 
Though  o'er  us  shine  the  jasper-lighted  dome;  — 
The  chain  may  lengthen  but  it  never  parts. 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

187 


HOME  DEFINED 

TTOME'S  not  merely  four  square  walls, 

-■■   Though  with  pictures  hung  and  gilded 
Home  is  where  affection  calls, 
Filled  with  shrines  the  heart  hath  builded ! 
Home!  go  watch  the  faithful  dove, 
Sailing  'neath  the  heaven  above  us; 
Home  is  where  there's  one  to  love! 
Home  is  where  there's  one  to  love  us. 

Home's  not  merely  roof  and  room, 
It  needs  something  to  endear  it, 
Home  is  where  the  heart  can  bloom. 
Where  there's  some  kind  lip  to  cheer  it! 
What  is  home  with  none  to  meet. 
None  to  welcome,  none  to  greet  us? 
Home  is  sweet,  and  only  sweet  — 
When  there's  one  we  love  to  meet  us. 

—  Charles  Swain. 


i88 


MOTHER!  H0:ME! 

TV/rOTHER!  Home!  that  blest  refrain 
^"-*-  Sounds  through  every  hastening  year; 
All  things  go  but  these  remain 
Held  in  memorj'^'s  jewelled  chain, 

Names  most  precious,  names  thrice  dear; 
Mother!  Home!  that  blest  refrain. 

How  it  sings  away  my  pain! 

How  it  stills  my  waking  fear! 
All  things  go,  but  these  remain. 
Griefs  may  grow  and  sorrows  wane, 

E'er  that  melody  I  hear: 
Mother !  Home !  —  that  blest  refrain. 

Tenderness  in  every  strain, 

Thoughts  to  worship  and  revere; 

All  things  go,  but  these  remain; 

Every  night  you  smile  again, 
Every  day  you  bring  me  cheer: 

Mother!  Home!  —  that  blest  refrain: 

All  things  go,  but  these  remain! 

—  John  Jarvis  Holden. 


189 


HOME 

**  I  '^HERE  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 
-■■     A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest, 
Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  scepter,  pageantry  and  pride, 
Whilst  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  father,  friend. 
Here  woman  reigns:  the  mother,  daughter,  wife  — 
Strews  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life. 
In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye 
An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces  lie ; 
Around  her  knees,  domestic  duties  meet 
And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 

—  James  Montgomery 

A  ND  home  will  sweeten  in  the  coming  days, 
When  widening  love  shall  warm  these  human 
ways; 
When  every  mother,  pressing  to  her  face. 
Her  child,  shall  clasp   all  children  of   the  race. 
Then  will  the  rafter  and  the  oaken  beam 
Be  laid  with  music  and  the  poet's  dream  — 
Then  Earth,  as  far  as  flies  the  feathered  foam, 
Shall  have  in  it  the  friendly  feel  of  home. 

—  Edwin  Markham. 
190 


THERE'S  NO  PLACE  LIKE  HOME 

'  "]\  yTTD   pleasures   and   palaces   though   we   may 

■^    -*■       roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home ; 
A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with 
elsewhere. 

Home,    Home!  sweet,  sweet  Home! 
There's  no  place  like  Home !     There's  no  place  like 
Home! 

Hew  sweet  'tis  to  sit  'neath  a  fond  father's  smile, 
And  the  cares  of  a  mother  to  soothe  and  beguile ! 
Let  others  delight  'mid  pleasures  to  roam. 
But  give  me,  oh,  give  me,  the  pleasure  of  home! 

Home!   Home!  sweet,  sweet  Home! 
There's  no  place  like  Home !     There's  no  place  like 
Home! 

To  thee  I'll  return,  overburdened  with  care; 
The  heart's  dearest  solace  will  smile  on  me  there; 
No  more  from  that  cottage  again  will  I  roam; 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home. 

Home!   Home!  sweet,  sweet  Home! 
There's  no  place  like  Home !     There's  no  place  like 
Home!  — John  Howard  Payne. 

191 


THE  JOY  OF  HOME 

A  HEALTHY  home,  presided  over  by  a  thrifty, 
■*■  ^  cleanly  woman,  is  the  abode  of  comfort,  of 
virtue,  and  of  happiness.  It  is  the  scene  of  every 
ennobling  relation  in  family  life.  It  is  endeared 
to  a  man  by  many  delightful  memories,  by  the  affec- 
tionate voices  of  his  wife,  his  children,  and  his 
neighbors.  Such  a  home  is  regarded  not  as  a  mere 
nest  of  common  instinct,  but  as  a  training  ground 
for  young  immortals,  a  sanctuary  for  the  heart,  a 
refuge  from  storm,  a  sweet  resting  place  after*  labor, 
a  consolation  in  sorrow,  a  pride  in  success,  and  a 
joy  at  all  times. 

—  Samuel  Smiles. 


O  HAPPY    home!     O     bright    and     cheerful 
hearth! 
Look  round  with  me,  my  lover,  friend  and  wife, 
On  these  fair  faces  we  have  lit  with  life. 
And  in  the  perfect  blessing  of  their  birth. 
Help  me  to  live  our  thanks  for  so  much  heaven  on 
earth. 

—  Martin  F.  Tupper. 


192 


A  HAVEN  OF  REFUGE 

A  REAL  HOME  is  a  haven  of  refuge.  The 
•^  ^  world  does  this  for  us  all ;  it  makes  us  hunger 
for  a  loving  sympathy  and  a  calming,  soothing  touch. 
The  true  mother  gives  this  freely,  gladly,  never 
counting  the  cost.  We  take  the  charity  for  granted, 
seldom  thinking  of  the  other  side.  Who  is  there 
to  comfort  the  mother  in  her  time  of  need?  All 
women  crave  a  soul  fortress,  builded  and  guarded 
by  a  lover  of  superhuman  strength.  But  the  spirit- 
ual giant  is  rare  among  men.  And  the  infinite 
pathos  of  earth  dwells  in  the  eyes  of  the  woman 
who  longs  to  creep  like  a  tired  child  into  the  arms 
of  her  lover  —  but  cannot,  for  he  would  not  under- 
stand. —  Edward  Earle  Purington. 

IS  there  aught  so  lovely,  so  attractive,  so  invalu- 
able as  a  real  home,  where  every  life  considers 
every  other  life,  and  the  whole  household  economy 
is  as  a  concerted  piece  of  music?  In  this  direction 
all  men,  women  and  children  should  move.  Home 
should  be  the  sweetest,  happiest  place  on  earth. 

—  Parker. 


193 


HOME  MEMORIES 

T  REMEMBER,  I  remember,  the  house  where  I 

"*■       was  born, 

The  little  window  where  the  sun  came  peeping  in 

at  morn. 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon,  nor  brought  too 

long  a  day; 
But  now   I   often   wish   the  night  had   borne  my 

breath  away! 

I    remember,    I    remember,   where   I   was   used   to 

swing. 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh  to  swallows 

on  the  wing; 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then,   that  is  so  heavy 

now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool  the  fever  on 

my  brow ! 

I    remember,    I    remember,   the   fir-trees   dark   and 

high ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops  were  close  against 

the  sky. 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance,  but  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven  than  when  I 

was  a  boy.  —  Thomas  Hood. 

194 


w 


WELCOME  HOxVIE 

E  stretch  our  hands,  we  lift  a  jojful  cr>', 
Words  of  all  words  the  sweetest  — "  Wel- 
come home !  " 

—  Anne  Rothwell  Christie. 


'  I  '*HERE  is  no  place  like  the  old  place  where  you 

"^  and  I  were  born ! 

Where  we  lifted  first  our  eyelids  on  the  splendor  of 

the  morn, 
From  the  milk-white  breast  that  warmed  us,  from 

the  clinging  arms  that  bore. 
Where  the  dear  eyes  glistened  o'er  us  that  will  look 
on  us  no  more! 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

^  I  '"HIS  fond  attachment  to  the  well-known  place 

-■■      Whence  first  we  started  into  life's  long  race, 
Maintains  its  hold  with  such  unfailing  sway, 
We  feel  it  e'en  in  age,  and  at  our  latest  day. 

—  William  Cowper. 

A  BSENT  many  a  year  — 
•^  ^  Far  o'er  the  sea,  his  sweetest  dreams  were  still 
Of  that  dear  voice  that  soothed  his  infancy. 

—  Robert  Southey. 
195 


THE  HOMESTEAD  HEARTH 

OIT  with  me  at  the  homestead  hearth, 
^  And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth 
To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's  blaze. 

—  John  Greenleaf  IVhittier. 

T3  Y  the  gathering  round  the  winter  hearth, 

■*^  When  twilight  called  unto  household  mirth; 

By  the  fairy  tale  or  the  legend  old 

In  that  ring  of  happy  faces  told; 

By  the  quiet  hour  when  hearts  unite 

In  the  parting  prayer  and  the  kind  good-night; 

By  the  smiling  eye  and  the  loving  tone, 

Over  thy  life  has  a  spell  been  thrown. 

—  Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 

/^UR  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth, 

^-^  Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet; 

There  my  mother's  voice  was  always  kind 

And  her  smile  was  always  sweet ;  .  .  . 

But  that  broad  hearth's  light,  oh  that  broad  hearth's 

light! 
And  my  father's  look,  and  my  mother's  smile, 
They  are  in  my  heart  to-night! 

—  Phoebe  Gary. 
196 


THE  EVENING  HEARTHSTONE 

A^LADLY  now  we  gather   around   it,   for   the 

^^        toiling  day  is  done, 

And  the  gay  and  solemn  twilight  follows  down  the 

golden  sun, 
Shadows    lengthen    on    the    pavement,    stalk    like 

giants  through  the  gloom 
Wander  past  the  dusky  casement,  creep  around  the 

fire-lit  room. 
Grates  are  glowing,  music  flowing  from  the  lips  we 

love  the  best; 
Oh,  the  joy,  the  bliss  of  knowing  there  are  hearts 

whereon  to  rest! 

Hearts    that    throb   with    eager   gladness  —  hearts 
that  echo  to  our  own  — 

While  grim  care  and  haunting  sadness  mingle  ne'er 
in  look  or  tone. 

Care  may  tread  the  hall  of  daylight,  sadness  haunt 
the  midnight  hour. 

But   the   weird   and   witching   twilight   brings   the 
glowing  hearthstone's  dower. 

Altar   of    our   holiest    feelings!    Childhood's    well- 
remembered  shrine! 

Spirit    yearnings  —  soul    revealings  —  wreaths    im- 
mortal 'round  thee  twine!  — Anon. 
197 


THE  QUIETUDE  OF  HOME 

'"jT^HANK  God!  O  woman!  for  the  quietude  of 
-*■  your  home,  and  that  you  are  queen  in  it. 
Men  come  at  eventide  to  the  home,  but  all  day 
long  you  are  there,  beautifying  it,  sanctifying  it, 
adorning  it,  blessing  it.  Better  be  there  than  wear 
Victoria's  coronet.  Better  be  there  than  carry  the 
purse  of  a  princess.  It  may  be  a  very  humble  home. 
There  may  be  no  carpet  on  the  floor.  There  may 
be  no  silks  in  the  wardrobe;  but  by  your  faith  in 
God,  and  your  cheerful  demeanor,  you  may  garni- 
ture that  place  with  more  splendor  than  the  up- 
holsterer's hand  ever  kindled. 

—  T.  DeWitt  Talmage. 


'TT^HERE  the  good  angel  of  the  house,  the  mother 

-*■  and  the  wife, 

With  gentle  care  and  thoughtful  love,  is  minister- 
ing unto  life.  — Martin  F.   T upper. 


I 


VALUE  this  delicious  home  feeling  as  one  of 
the  choicest  gifts  a  parent  can  bestow. 

—  Washington  Irving. 
iq8 


THE  SMILE  OF  HOME 

QWEET  is  the  smile  of  home;  the  mutual  look, 
^  Where  hearts  are  of  each  other  sure  ; 
Sweet  are  the  joys  that  crowd  the  household  nook, 
The  haunts  of  all  affections  pure. 

—  John  Keble. 


T  TOME  of  our  childhood !     How  affection  clings 
-*-  -■■  And  hovers  round  thee  with  her  seraph  wings! 
Dearer  thy  hills,  though  clad  in  autumn  brown, 
Than  fairest  summits  which  the  cedars  crown; 
Sweeter  the  fragrance  of  thy  summer  breeze 
Than  all  Arabia  breathes  along  the  seas! 
The  stranger's  gale  wafts  home  the  exile's  sigh. 
For  the  heart's  temple  is  its  own  blue  sky. 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


BY  the  fireside  still  the  light  is  shining, 
The  children's  arms  round  the  parents  twining. 
From  Love  so  sweet,  O,  who  would  roam. 
Be  it  ever  so  homely,  home  is  home. 

—  Dinah  Mulock  Craik. 


199 


THE  TRUE  CHRISTIAN  HOME 

Tn\OWN  in  Kentucky  there  lived  years  ago  a 
-*-^  sweet-tempered,  beautiful  woman,  with  all  the 
virtue  of  a  good  mother.  She  did  not  know  much 
about  books,  but  she  knew  the  Bible,  and,  with  her 
little  boy  upon  her  knees,  she  told  him  wonderful 
stories.  She  knew  little  of  science  and  art,  but  she 
knew  nature,  and  she  talked  to  her  little  son  about 
the  glories  of  God  in  the  world.  She  had  no 
knowledge  of  philosophy,  but  she  told  her  boy  that 
the  meanest  thing  in  the  world  was  to  be  a  liar 
or  a  hypocrite,  and  the  greatest  thing  was  to  be  a 
good  man.  When  he  was  nine  years  of  age  she 
died,  but  that  boy  was  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  he 
says  that  all  he  was  he  owed  to  his  mother. 

If  our  homes  are  to  be  as  God  would  have  them, 
the  mother  must  be  true.  The  atmosphere  must 
be  quiet  and  peaceful.  To  cross  the  threshold  of 
such  a  home  would  mean  to  enter  into  blessing. 

Mothers  have  always  influenced  for  good  or  evil 
in  a  mightier  way  than  any  other  person, 

—  J.  Wilbur  Chapman. 


G 


OD  could  not  be  everywhere;  therefore   He 
-*    made  Mothers.  — Hebrew  Proverb. 


200 


THE  HOME  RULES  THE  NATION 

Tj^OR  one  I  care  little  for  the  government  which 
■*■  presides  at  Washington,  in  comparison  with 
the  government  which  rules  the  millions  of  Ameri- 
can homes.  No  administration  can  seriously  harm 
us  if  our  home-life  is  pure,  frugal,  and  godly.  No 
statesmanship  or  legislation  can  save  us,  if  once  our 
homes  become  the  abode  of  ignorance  or  the  nestling- 
place  of  profligacy.  The  home  rules  the  nation. 
If  the  home  is  demoralized  it  will  ruin  it.  The 
real  seed-corn  whence  our  republic  sprang  was  the 
Christian  households,  the  "Mayflower";  or  which 
set  up  the  family  altar  of  the  Hollander  and  the 
Huguenot.  All  our  best  characters,  best  legisla- 
tion, best  institutions,  and  best  church-life  were 
cradled  in  those  early  homes.  They  were  the  tap- 
root of  the  republic,  and  of  the  American  churches. 

—  Theodore  L.  Cuyle?; 

"VTAPOLEON  cherished  a  high  conception  of  a 
■*-  ^  mother's  power,  and  believed  that  the  mothers 
of  the  land  could  shape  the  destiny  of  his  beloved 
France.  Hence,  he  said  in  his  sententious,  laconic 
style:     "The   great   need   of   France   is   mothers." 

—  H.  H.  Birkins. 
201 


THE  OLD  HOME 

A  WEATHER-BEATEN    house,    an    unkept 
yard, 
With  needs  for  flowers,  and  no  gate  to  guard. 
The  path  whose  every  inch  to  thought  is  sweet, 
Because  once  pressed  and  oft  by  her  dear  feet; 
An  empty  crumbling  house  with  but  a  door, 
Yet  on  its  hinges  but  tells  me  o'er  and  o'er 
How  oft  her  patient  hand  its  knob  hath  turned  — 
How  vast  a  debt  from  me  that  hand  hath  earned. 

I  listen  for  her  foot-step  in  the  hall ; 
Once  more  I  wait  her  voice  my  name  to  call; 
A  moment  more,  it  seems,  her  face  must  bring 
To  give  me  as  of  old  my  welcoming! 

•  •••••• 

The  tears  fall  thick  and  fast,  I  scarce  can  see. 

What  kindly  memory  would  do  for  me  — 

Ah!     Through  the  mist  there  smiles  a  hallowed 

face, 
Illumined  by  all  that  makes  a  mother's  grace. 
Go  with  me,  picture,  through  the  changing  years! 
Bright  be  thou  kept  by  ever-falling  tears! 
I  kiss  thee,  press  thee  to  my  heart,  and  pray 
Thy  guardianship  through  life's  forbidding  fray. 

—  Fred  Clare  Baldwin. 
202 


HOME  IS  HOME 

WE  may  rove  the  wide  world  o'er, 
But  we  ne'er  shall  find  a  trace 

Of  the  home  we  loved  of  yore, 

Of  the  old  familiar  place; 

Other  scenes  may  be  as  bright, 

But  we  miss,   'neath  alien  skies, 

Both  the  welcome  and  the  light 

Of  the  old,  kind,  loving  eyes. 

Home  is  home,  of  this  bereft, 

Memory   loves   again   to   trace 

All  the  forms  of  those  we  left 

In  the  old   familiar  place. 
We  may  sail  o'er  every  sea, 

But  we  still  shall  fail  to  find 

Any  spot  so  dear  to  be 

As  the  one  we  left  behind  ; 

Words  of  comfort  we  may  hear 
But  they  cannot  touch  the  heart, 
Like  the  tones,  to  memory  dear, 
Of  the  friends  from  whom  we  part. 
Home  is  home,  the  wanderer  longs 
All  the  scenes  of  youth  to  trace. 
And  to  hear  the  old  home  songs 
In  the  dear  familiar  place. 

—  Charles  IV.  Glover. 
203 


OH,  TO  BE  HOME  AGAIN! 

"TTOME,    to   the   gray   house   the   pine   trees 
■*-  -*■       guard  sighing ; 

Home,  to  the  low  door  that  laughs  to  my  touch. 
How  should  I  know  till  my  wings  failed  me,  flying, 
Home-nest  —  my  heart's  nest  —  I  loved  you  so 
much?" 

—  Fannie  Stearns  Davis. 


/^H,  to  be  home  again,  home  again,  home  again! 
^^   Under  the  apple  boughs  down  by  the  mill ; 
Mother  is  calling  me,  father  is  calling  me, 
Calling  me,  calling  me,  calling  me  still. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  be  wandering,  wandering. 
Through  the  green  meadows  and  over  the  hill; 
Sisters  are  calling  me,  brothers  are  calling  me, 
Calling  me,  calling  me,  calling  me  still. 

Oh,  once  more  to  be  home  again,  home  again. 
Dark  grows  my  sight,  and  the  evening  is  chill  — 
Do  you  not  hear  how  the  voices  are  calling  me, 
Calling  me,  calling  me,  calling  me  still! 

—  James  Thomas  Fields. 

204 


HOME  SONGS 

OH,  sing  once  more  those  joy-provoking  strains, 
Which,  half  forgotten,  in  my  memory  dwell! 
They    send    the    life-blood    bounding    through    my 

veins 
And  circle  round  me  like  an  airy  spell. 

The  songs  of  home  are  to  the  human  heart 

Far  dearer  than  the  notes  the  song-birds  pour 

And  of  our  inner  nature  seem  a  part; 

Then  sing  those  dear,  familiar  lays  once  more  — 

Those  cheerful  lays  of  other  days  — 

Oh,  sing  those  cheerful  lays  once  more! 

—  Anon. 


4  4y^^O,  sing  the  songs  you  cherish  well, 

^-J  Each  ode  and  simple  lay; 
Go,  chord  the  notes  till  bosoms  swell. 

With  strains  that  deftly  play. 
All,  all  are  yours  to  sacred  keep. 

Your  choicest  treasures  'mong; 
But  give  to  me  till  memory  sleeps, 

The  songs  that  mother  sung." 

—  Epworth  Herald. 

205 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  HOME 

TF  ever  I  make  anything  of  myself  in  this  world  or 
•*■  another,  I  shall  owe  it  to  the  blessed  influences 
of  home.  It  was  my  mother  who  brought  out  the 
best  that  was  in  me.       — Daniel  Coit  Gilman. 


A     PICTURE  memory  brings  to  me: 
■*■  ■^     I  look  across  the  years  and  see 
Myself  beside  my  mother's  knee. 

I  feel  her  gentle  hand  restrain 

My  selfish  moods,  and  know  again. 

A  child's  blind  sense  of  wrong  and  pain, 

But,  wiser  now,  a  man  gray  grown. 
My  childhood's  needs  are  better  known, 
My  mother's  chastening  love  I  own. 

—  John   Greenleaf   Whittier. 


TTXID  ever  a  soul  in  its  immediate  distress  or  deso- 
■'^■^  lation  find  the  form  of  petition  learnt  in  child- 
hood lifeless  on  the  lips  of  age? 

—  John  Ruskin. 
206 


AT  EVEN-TIDE 

THE  mother-heart  doth  yearn  at  even-tide, 
And,  wheresoe'er  the  straying  ones  may  roam, 
When  even  cometh  on  they  all  fare  home. 
'Neath  feathered  sheltering  the  brood  doth  hide, 
In  eager  flight  the  birds  wing  to  their  nest. 

While  happy  lambs  and  children  miss  the  sun, 
And  to  the  folds  do  hustle  one  by  one, 
As  night  doth  gather  slowly  in  the  west. 
All  ye  who  hurry  through  life's  busy  day, 
Hark  to  the  greeting  that  the  Ages  tell: 

"  The  sun  doth  rise  and  set,  hail  and  farewell," 
But  comfort  ye  your  heart  where'er  you  stray. 
For  those  who  through  this  little  day  do  roam. 
When  even  cometh  on,  all  shall  fare  home. 

—  Lucy  Evangeline  Ttlley. 


H 
A 


OMES  are  for  mothers  as  nests  are  for  birds. 

—  Arthur  B.  Laughlin. 

MOTHER'S   arms  are  made  of   tenderness 
and  children  sleep  soundly  in  them. 

—  Victor  Hugo. 
207 


A  MOTHER'S  GOOD-BY 

A     WAVE  of  the  hand  from  the  cottage  door 
-*•  ^     As  her  boy  turned  the  roadway's  bend ; 
A  wave  of  the  hand  as  in  days  of  yore  — 
A  wave  of  the  hand,  but  'twas  vastly  more! 
A  mother's  heart,  and  a  mother's  prayer 
That  will  follow  his  footsteps  everywhere, 
Is  the  token  her  boy  will  read  for  aye 
In  the  wave  of  the  hand  she  gave  to-day 
From  the  old  hillside  cottage  door. 

—  John  R.  Clements. 


^  I  ''HE  mother  sending  forth  her  child 

-■■      To  meet  with  cares  and  strife, 
Breathes   through  her  tears  her   doubts  and  fears 
For  the  loved  one's  future  life. 
No  cold  "  adieu,"  no  "  farewell  "  lives 
Within  her  choking  sighs ; 
But  the  deepest  song  of  anguish  gives: 
"  God  bless  thee,  boy !  —  good-by !  " 

—  Eliza  Cook. 


208 


GOOD-BY  — GOD  BLESS  YOU! 

T  LOVE  the  words  —  perhaps  because 
*■•     When  I  was  leaving  mother, 
Standing  at  last  in  solemn  pause, 

We  looked  at  one  another, 
And  I  —  I  saw  in  mother's  eyes 

The  love  she  could  not  tell  me, 
A  love  eternal  as  the  skies. 

Whatever  fate  befell  me. 

She  put  her  arms  about  my  neck 

And  soothed  the  pain  of  leaving, 
And  though  her  heart  was  like  to  break, 

She  spoke  no  word  of  grieving; 
She  let  no  tear  bedim  her  eye, 

For  fear  that  might  distress  me, 
But,  kissing  me,  she  said  good-by. 

And  asked  our  God  to  bless  me. 

—  Eugene  Field. 


209 


TWO  PICTURES 

A  N  old  farm-house,  with  meadows  wide 
•*-  ^  And  Sweet  with  clover  on  each  side; 
A  bright-eyed  boy  who  looks  from  out 
The  door,  with  woodbine  wreathed  about. 
And  wishes  his  one  thought  all  day: 
"  Oh,  if  I  could  but  fly  away 
From  this  dull  spot,  the  world  to  see, 
How  happy,  happy,  happy, 
How  happy  I  should  be !  " 

Amid  the  city's  constant  din, 
A  man  who  round  the  world  has  been. 
Who,  'mid  the  tumult  and  the  throng. 
Is  thinking,  thinking,  all  day  long, 
"  Oh,  could  I  only  tread  once  more 
The  field-path  to  the  farm-house  door, 
The  old  green  meadows  could  I  see. 
How  happy,  happy,  happy, 
How  happy  I  should  be." 

—  Marian  Douglas 


2IO 


HOME 

T  TOME  is  a  box  of  jewels,  more  precious  than 
-^  -'-  diamonds  or  fine  rubies.  Here,  in  childhood 
dwelt  your  mother's  love;  here  in  riper  years,  the 
love  of  your  children  and  their  mother. 

—  Albert  B.  Galloway. 


H 


OME,  that  place  which  none  falter  to  enter, 
and  which  all  are  loath  to  leave. 

—  F.  C.  Barbour. 


'  I  ''HE  common  things  of  life  are  all  so  dear! 

-■■     The  waking  in  the  warm  half-gloom 
To  find  again  the  old  familiar  room, 
The  scents  and  sights  and  sounds  that  never  tire, 
The  crackle  of  the  open  fire. 
The  homely  work,  the  lilt  of  baby's  bliss, 
The  waiting,  then  the  footsteps  coming  near, 
The  opening  door,  the  handclasp  and  the  kiss 
Is  Heaven  not,  after  all,  the  Now  and  Here, 
The  common  things  of  life  are  all  so  dear? 

—  Anon. 


w 


E  think  at  first  that  home  is  heaven ; 
We  learn  at  last  that  heaven  is  home. 

—  Queen  Altxandra. 
211 


THE  HOME  WHERE  I  WAS  BORN 

"DETWEEN  broad  fields  of  wheat  and  corn 

^^  Is  the  lonely  home  where  I  was  born. 

The  peach-tree  leans  against  the  wall, 

And  the  woodbine  wanders  over  all. 

There  is  the  barn,  and  as  of  yore 

I  can  smell  the  hay  from  the  open  door, 

And  see  the  busy  swallows  throng, 

And  hear  the  pewee's  mournful  song. 

Oh,  ye  who  daily  cross  the  sill, 

Step  lightly,  for  I  love  it  still. 

—  T.  Buchanan  Read. 


A     DIM  veranda  cool  and  deep, 
■^  ■*■     Virginia  creeper  climbing  o'er, 
Tall  maples  where  the  blue-jays  sweep! 
And  I  am  a  lad  at  home  once  more; 
A  sweet  bird  singing  by  the  door, 
A  dappled  sward  of  sun  and  shade 
Which  many  a  fragrant  blossom  bore: 
This  is  a  picture  memory  made. 

—  Oliver  Marble. 


212 


THE  AULD  HOUSE 

OH,  the  auld  house,  the  auld  house, — 
What  though  the  rooms  were  wee, 
Oh,  kind  hearts  were  dwelling  there, 

And   bairnies  fu'  o'  glee; 
The  wild  rose  and  the  jessamine 

Still  hang  upon  the  wa' : 
How  many  cherished  memories 
Do  they  sweet  flowers  reca'! 

Still  flourishing  the  auld  pear  tree 

The  bairnies  like  to  see; 
And  oh,  how  often  did  they  speir 

When  ripe  they  a'  wad  be! 
The  voices  sweet,  the  wee  bit  feet 

Aye  rinnin'  here  and  there. 
The  merry  shout  —  oh!  whiles  we  greet 

To  think  we'll  hear  nae  main 

For  they  are  a'  wide  scattered  now, 

Some  to  the  Indies  gane, 
And  ane,  alas!  to  her  lang  hame 

Not  here  we'll  meet  again. 
The  kirkyard,  the  kirkyard! 

Wi'  flowers  o'  every  hue, 
Sheltered  by  the  holly  shade 

And  the  dark,  sombre  yew. 

—  Lady  Caroline  Nairne. 

213 


HOME  TO  MOTHER 

"VTO  matter  how  far  our  feet  may  rove, 

•^  ^    When  weary  and  worn  in  constant  strife, 

Mother  and  home  are  the  best  of  life. 

Blessed  is  he  who  may  smilingly  say, 
"  I'm  going  home  to  mother  to-day." 
God's  mercy  hallows  that  home  so  dear, 
Where  mother  our  footsteps  waits  to  hear. 

Bless  the  busy  hand  and  the  cheery  smile 
That  brighten  and  comfort  all  the  while; 
Nothing  on  earth  can  with  home  compare 
When  a  loving  mother  waits  us  there. 

—  Anon. 

OOME  precious  words  are  born  of  earth; 
^^   Some  others  by  the  angels  given ; 
But  sweetest  of  celestial  birth, 

Are     these:     "My     mother,"     "Home,"     an( 
"Heaven."  — Anon. 


T 


O  Adam,  Paradise  was  home, 
To  the  good  among  his  descendants. 
Home  is  Paradise. 

—  Henry   Ware. 
214 


MOTHER'S  EMPIRE 

^  I  ^HE  Queen  that  sits  upon  the  throne  of  home, 
"*■  crowned  and  sceptered  as  none  other  ever  can 
be,  is  —  mother.  Her  enthronement  is  complete, 
her  reign  is  unrivalled,  and  the  moral  issues  of  her 
empire  are  eternal.  "  Her  children  rise  up  and 
call  her  blessed."  She  so  presents  and  exemplifies 
divine  truth,  that  it  reproduces  itself  in  the  happiest 
de\'elopment  of  childhood  —  character  and  life. 
Her  memory'  is  sacred,  while  she  lives,  and  be- 
comes a  perpetual  inspiration,  even  when  the  bright 
flowers  bloom  above  her  sleeping  dust.  She  is  an 
incarnation  of  goodness  to  her  child,  and  hence  her 
immense  power. 

Scotland,  with  her  well-known  reverence  for 
motherhood,  insists  that,  "  An  ounce  of  Mother  is 
worth  more  than  a  pound  of  clergy." 

The  ancient  orator  bestowed  a  flattering  compli- 
ment upon  the  hom.es  of  Roman  mothers,  when  he 
said,  "  The  empire  is  at  the  fireside."  MTio  can 
think  of  the  influence  that  a  mother  wields  in  the 
home  and  not  be  impressed  with  the  far-reaching 
results ! 

—  //.  H.  B  irk  ins. 


215 


REVERIES  OF  THE  OLD  KITCHEN 

TT^AR  back  in  my  musings  my  thoughts  have  been 

-■-         cast 

To  the  cot  where  the  hours  of  my  childhood  were 

passed ; 
I  loved  all  its  rooms  to  the  pantry  and  hall, 
But  the  blessed  old  kitchen  was  dearer  than  all. 
To  the  nail  in  the  ceiling,  the  latch  on  the  door 
And  I  love  every  crack  on  the  old  kitchen  floor. 

I    remember   the   fire-place   with   mouth   high   and 

wide ; 
The  old-fashioned  oven  that  stood   by   its  side  — 
Out  of  which,  each  Thanksgiving,  came  puddings 

and  pies; 
That   fairly   bewildered   and   dazzled   my  eyes. 
But  the  dearest  of  memories  I've  laid  up  in  store. 
Is  the  mother  that  trod  on  the  old  kitchen  floor. 

I  remember  with  pleasure  what  joy  filled  our  eyes, 
When  she  told  us  the  stories  that  children  so  prize; 
They  were  new  every  night,   though  we'd  heard 

them  before 
From  her  lips,  at  the  wheel,  on  the  old  kitchen  floor. 

—  Anon. 
2l6 


SHE  MADE  HOME  HAPPY 

"OHE  made  home  happy!"  through   the  long, 

^^       sad  years, 
The  mother  toiled  and  never  stopped  to  rest, 
Until  they  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
And  closed  her  eyes,  no  longer  dim  with  tears. 
The  simple  record  that  she  left  behind 
Was  grander  than  the  soldiers,  to  my  mind. 

—  Henry  Coyle. 


/^H,    the  love  of   a   true,   noble   mother!    it   is 
^^       strange  that  we.  never  half  prize 
Or  realize  her  lifelong  devotion  till  the  grave  hides 
the  fair  from  our  eyes. 

—  C.  E.  Randall. 


Ti^RlENDS  come  to  men,  and  loves,  but  never 
-■-  such  sweet  friendship,  such  true  love,  as  mothers 
know.  —  Wallace  Rice. 


T 


HE  many  make  the  household,  but  only  one 
makes  the  home.    —  James  Russell  Lowell. 
217 


MY  MOTHER'S  HANDS 

OUCH  beautiful,  beautiful  hands  — 
^  Though  the  heart  was  weary  and  sad, 
These  patient  hands  kept  toiling  on, 

That  the  children  might  be  glad. 
I  almost  weep,  as  I  look  back 

To  childhood's  distant  day, 
I  know  how  those  hands  rested  not 

While  mine  were  at  their  play. 

Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands, 

They're  growing  feeble  now; 
For  time  and  pain  have  left  their  mark 

On  hand  and  heart  and  brow. 

•  •••••* 

But  oh,  beyond  this  shadow-lamp, 

Where  all  is  bright  and  fair, 
I  know  full  well  these  dear  old  hands 

Will  palms  of  victory  bear. 
Wliere  crystal  streams,   through  endless  years. 

Flow  over  golden  sands. 
And  where  the  old  grow  young  again, 

I'll  clasp  my  mother's  hands. 

—  Ellen  H.  M.  Gates. 


2i8 


REST 

f~\  PATIENT  face,   that  has  grown  thin   and 

^^         wrinkled 

Moving  along  in  home-life's  busy  way, 
Wearing  a  crown  of  hair  all  thickly  sprinkled 
With  silken  threads  of  shining  gray, 

Soon  shall  the  faded  face  and  silverj'  hair 
Eternal  youth's  bright  glory  wear, 

O  toiling  hands,  that  have  received  so  gladly 

Task  after  task  for  others  to  be  done, 
And  tired  feet  that  went  their  rounds  so  bravely, 
And  faltered  not,  e'en  at  the  set  of  sun. 

Soon  shall  they  rest,  as  twilight  shadows  glide 
Over  the  land,  the  garish  day  to  hide. 

O  loyal  soul,  that  is  so  true  to  duty 

And  faithful  to  the  happiness  of  home, 
Soon  thou  shalt  wear  a  crown  of  saintly  beauty, 
And  dwell  within  the  sunlight  of  the  Throne. 
O  faithful  woman,  sweet  will  be  thy  rest 
When  thou  hast  passed  the  gateway  of  life's 
west! 

—  M.  A.  Holt. 


219 


GONE  HOME 

QHE  has  gone  home,  to  that  glad  land  which  lies, 
^  Not  far  away,  yet  veiled  from  mortal  sight, 
Lest  the  clear  shining  of  its  cloudless  skies 

Dim  all  the  radiance  of  our  earthly  light. 
"  The  Lord  had  need  of  her,"  for  some  high  task 

Of  noblest  service  that  his  angels  know. 
And  yet  to-day,  with  faltering  lips  we  ask, 

"  Can  there  be  need  in  heaven  like  ours  below?  " 


Sweet,  wondrous  voice,  whose  clear  entrancing  note 

Could  touch  the  listening  heart  with  hallov/ed 
thrill, 
Will  not  thy  music  through  the  silence  float, 

And  lift  our  souls  to  heavenly  rapture  still  ? 
Not  far  away  in  the  sweet  hour  of  prayer, 

But  living,  loving,  joining  in  our  praise. 
Our  faith  can  see  thee,  grown  more  heavenly  fair, 

With  the  old  smile,  and  dear  familiar  ways. 

—  Emily  Huntington  Miller. 


220 


MAMMY'S  GWINE  HOME 

•  ROSSED  the  last  dim  river  —  ended  now  the 
way ; 

Faithful  in  life's  winter,  and  singing  in  its  May ; 
Love    that    still    was    loyal  —  love    that    nothing 

craves  — 
Hands  that  rocked  Life's  cradle  and  wreathed  with 

flowers  its  graves. 
Stormy  days  or  sunny,  knowing  not  to  roam 
Till    that  — "  Good-by,    honey  —  Mammy's    gwine 

Home!" 

Toiling,  ever  faithful:     By  those  hands  caressed, 
Childhood    left    its    playthings  —  climbing    to    her 

breast ; 
And    the   old,   sweet   songs   she   sang   in    t\\alight 

shadows  deep, 
"Sing  us  all  to  sleep,   Mammy  —  sing  us  all  to 

sleep!" 
In  Life's  storm  or  splendor,  knowing  not  to  roam 
Till     that     farewell     tender  — "  Mammy's     gwine 

Home!" 

—  Anon. 


221 


MOTHER,  HOME,  AND  HEAVEN 

'  I  ^HERE  are  three  words  that  sweetly  blend,  that 

•^  on  the  heart  are  graven ; 

A  precious,  soothing  balm  they  lend  —  they're 
Mother,  Home,  and  Heaven. 

They  form  a  chain  whose  every  link  is  free  from 
base  alloy; 

A  stream  where  whosoever  drinks  will  find  refresh- 
ing joy! 

They  build  an  altar  where  each  day  love's  offering 

is  renewed ; 
And  peace  illumes  with  genial  ray  life's  darkened 

solitude!  — Mary  J.  Muckle. 

\  MONG  the  names  to  mortals  given 
•^  ^  There's  none  like  mother,  home,  and  heaven; 
For  home's  no  home  without  her  care; 
And  heaven,  we  know  she  will  be  there; 
Then  let  us,  while  we  love  each  other, 
Remember  and  be  kind  to  mother. 

—  E.  L.  Cassauria. 

THE   END 
222 


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